Mindfulness Taste of salt on your fingertip delicate tap of your forefinger on the crusty contours of a crumb of toast the mystery of adhesion, defying gravity, hand and crumb rise and you remember close-up of a gecko’s green foot pads on a pane of clear glass and, looking closely, the photographer and her camera reflected upside down in the gecko’s round bulging eye how as a girl you looked sideways into the bathroom mirror marveling that even the far reaches of the room were visible & how did Alice climb into that other world? & what does my counterpoint grimacing, grinning, sticking out her tongue in perfect synchrony think of me? which is to say how effortless to fall down a rabbit hole… Do not chastise yourself for failure again to achieve perfect mindfulness as, unbidden, a morsel has risen, has arrived— the taste of cinnamon on your tongue.
Rita Moe’s poetry has appeared in Water~Stone, Poet Lore, Slipstream, and other literary journals. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks, Sins & Disciplines and Findley Place; A Street, a Ballpark, a Neighborhood. She has two grown sons and lives with her husband in Roseville, Minnesota.
Amethyst Review 