Today I couldn’t think of funnel
though I could see them, two of them, nesting inside
each other on the butcher-block top of the dishwasher.
My husband was at the table with a gallon of Desert
and an empty bottle from Glacier Clear—
narrow enough to fit the holder in the Volvo,
and I said, You should use—and the word wouldn’t
I said, You should use—as the water struck the brim
and spilled down the sides and splashed to the floor
where I rushed with the sponge and said funnel!
As I rose up dizzy from the sudden shift of blood,
he asked me where I’d been.

But how could I tell him that I’d slipped into that place
we used to joke about—where all the things we can’t
whirl around together like Dante’s lovers.
Funnel, I told him, I couldn’t think of— funnel.
Too late, he said, handing me the bottle.
On my way to the door, I tossed him the funnels—
stuck together like two kids coupling—
but my whole way on the highway
as I sipped the Desert Spring in its pose as Glacier
I kept picturing what I’d glimpsed there as I rose—
the narrow spinning room with both of us inside,
slow-dancing down the tapering of the years

— Joan Murray, author of Swimming for the Ark

T. S. Poetry

2 thoughts on “Funnel

Add yours

  1. Wow, this one is very powerful. I felt her confusion and frustration, tinged with that ever-present worry of what the future holds. I do the same thing, and fear grabs me for a moment every time. Is my mind slipping? Of course, I’ve done this all my life, and that gives me hope that it really isn’t getting any worse. This really touching, and the imagery is so perfect!

    Liked by 1 person

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