Poem for Tuesday and Sculpted Dancers

Story
By Frances Leviston

Under what tree, in what part of the forest, beside which branch
of the leaf-obstructed stream, in sun or in rain,

concreted into what foundation, supporting whose house, deaf
to how many dinner parties, subjected to how many holding-forths,

compacted along with what model of car, with what registration,
wearing which perfume and what sort of pearls,

in the back-of-beyond of what country, adjoining whose under-
development land, masked by which strain of animal fodder’s

pollen blown from the next field along, belonging to whom, missed
by whom, questioned by which particular method, scarred where,

repaired where, reopened how, broken how,
how taken care of, transported how, buried

how, in what manner and from what platform disclaimed
during which international crisis, during which electoral year,

under whose watch, under whose watch
and why will it surface, why will it then be permitted to surface,

the end of the story, the body we need?

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It was 98 degrees in Seattle on Tuesday, something I was assured before moving to Seattle almost never happens in Seattle. Fortunately we have portable air conditioners in two rooms, or this would have been pretty miserable. The only real exercise I got was walking around in Target, since shopping for body wash seemed preferable to walking to the beach in this weather. But I pulled out a container stuck at the bottom of a nighttable and found where I'd packed my resin sheep and some other trinkets, so that at least was very exciting for me. 

My Voyager group watched the second-to-last Picard episode, "Vox" -- the one where I had warned the group last week that if a certain plot device occurred, I would yell, and I did (if Seven of Nine swoops in next week to save the day the way she did in all the Voyager episodes from which we're currently taking a break, I will really scream). Then we switched between the terrible Orioles game and alls-well Mariners game, followed now by Only Murders in the Building (I still think Meryl is guilty). Michael Gard sculptures at the Bellevue Arts Fair: