The Unrecognizable Star

in which this poet bemoans her misfiring toaster

blender, toaster, pot, coffee maker, juicer, can opener, egg turners, bread knife piles in kitchen sink

         (written yesterday in Alix Klingenberg's writing group, 1/25/26)

The Unrecognizable Star 

Let me explain my woe
that I am righteously furious 
at the constant interference
of inanimate objects in my life. 

It is physics,
its rigid laws
there can be no skirting around 
the needs of dumb things--
the plates, the funnels, 
the tea towels, 
the crusted gunk of food 
on the inside of the dishwasher door.
I cannot walk across a floor without
some thinga-bob or other falling
crashing 
and the pot wants scrubbing 
and the drain dear god what does it?

There is a bright silver star 
that I don’t recognize
hanging from the ceiling in my kitchen.
Is it a beacon? 
Is there another housewife 
across the galaxy, 
my twin perhaps,
her window zeroing in on my face 
her unwavering gaze 
she says where I live there is no controversy
no pain of metal on the shin
no impossible tangle of cords
no cracking or popping or
oops! I did it again dropping.

We have found our harmony here,
she says and then 
whirls away behind the blanket of stars
that at least, 
leaves me alone.

Let me explain how my counselor
said this is an issue of your soul.
I did not say there is no soul.
I’ve learned that so many things 
can hurt a person
and if costs me nothing 
to leave her beliefs unchallenged.

But I do not think she is correct.

I think it is the souls of the forks and spoons,
the hard-as-nails soul of the biscuit cutter,
the stubbornly consistent misfiring soul 
of the dumb-as-rocks toaster.

All the plastic/metal/cardboard/glass 
souls toppling me all day long
every day 
down onto my face
and my enormous sorrow of knowing 
I cannot change it 
and that I will not 
yield gracefully
to its inevitability.