clothespin

Yesterday my side of town was under a boil order, which means that something sinister has entered our water supply, and we must boil all drinking water until they (the city water table observers?) say not to, in this case 10pm last night. This sort of thing plays on all my worst insecurities and paranoia; the water is killing me! And what is it about 10pm that will save me from scary bacteria? Do they all expire then? Or do I need to flush 12 hours of water from my pipes to get rid of the bad stuff?

That morning I spent a good hour boiling two pots of water for coffee and to quench myself from drying out over night. The water had a metallic taste, and I'm pretty sure it had leftover potato starch floating in it. It reminded me a bit of the water I drank in China, which was kept at germ-killing temperature in a gigantic wall-mounted thermos-thing down the hall from the room at the hostel. It tasted humid, more moist than most water.

Other things I can think of that are under a boil order:

• my brain (one more week until finals)


• the unemployed of this country


• writers (alternates with freeze order and float order)


• the internet


• my students


• feminism and postmodernism


• ravioli

My first poem (in many years) for poetry workshop, only this is the version I won't turn in. I rewrote the poem in iambic pentameter to see what turned up, and here it is. I don't know fuck about poetry, and it's nice to have my ego out of the way for once.

Free lunch at church

All that is required of you here
Is a smile and thankyou to the ladies
Who cook a lunch for anyone who comes

Observe the ladle, steady and slow with lentils
Perfect in proportion, with no spills

When a man comes round to fill the pitchers
Ask him the difference in brownie pans.
He will explain that only one has nuts—
And then mention his wife who must abstain
From nuts, although her allergies aren’t bad,
Like some who cannot breath after one bite,
But bad enough, he says, and walks away—
Consider this the prayer before the meal

You will find comfort in the iceberg lettuce
You will see clear pitchers filled with milk.
The soup will need a little salt, not much
But the brownie will more than make up for that

While you scrape your plate, guess the soup’s spices;
Offer marjoram as a weak guess.
You will be right—the cook will smile and sigh
Congratulating you on your keen tongue.
You will accept this undeserved praise
Because you know it is required of you.