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