Keep stirring, you say.
Water the temperature of our bodies.
The wide-lipped bowl—its edge,
warm from my own hand through the wood.
A path of oil dances,
looping back, swelling home—
Dip your hand into the folds,
you will know when to stop.
Between my knuckles,
light as warm rain on the skin.
You brush the grain evenly with your palm,
As if blessing it, making sure it’s alright.
I pour the water in bouts.
Each time it seems: no more.
The ability to take:
there must be an aging like this.
Anna Polonyi is a Hungarian-Franco-American writer. For previously published poetry and prose, check out Belleville Park Pages, The Bastille and Two Words For. She is currently working on a body of poems called The Wayword, about the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. She holds a B.A. from Harvard University, and an M.A. in Journalism and International Relations from Sciences Po (Paris). She has received a Fulbright fellowship for Young American Journalists and earns her daily bread as a freelance news reporter in France.