Jane Zwart
tried to derive fulfillment from puttying,
with nut butters, wholesome, whole wheat bread.
. . .
Some tediums, after all,
are dear. I fold the same tee-shirts—Yoda
and phoenix, swoosh and v-neck—again and again,
never untenderly. And
I bless the grocer who, no yen for novelty,
rebuilds pyramids of Red Delicious when the store
is slow. I bless the aisles
he stocks with unvarying cans, Spartan
brand; bless the timer he sets to mist his lettuces.
. . .
To trust these constants
is different only in degree from leaning
toward consolation. Would that the ordinary always
wore a print we liked, a pattern
just busy enough not to chafe. Would
that every chore shouldered our need for rhyme.
. . .
But I do not taste sweetness
sucking the knuckles I bark against
the jam jar's insides. I have tried to love dailiness,
making my sons sandwiches,
but instead have only learned by heart
a procession of the loveless tasks we do for love.