Kitchen Sill

I'm standing here now trying to see it.

The windowsill above the sink where light comes in

and I've been standing at this sink for

two years, maybe three, washing dishes,

looking up through the window at the street,

and my friend asked what color it was

and I couldn't say. Just blank.

Pale, I think. Some kind of pale.

There are objects on it but I can't

remember what they are when I'm not looking.

A plant. Something else. Something I've moved

to the side a hundred times reaching past it.

My hand knows where they are better than my eyes do.

There's a gap between two of them

where light falls through, or maybe that's just space.

I can't hold it in my head. The moment

I turn away from the sink the image goes soft,

the edges blur, the colors drain out

like I never looked at it at all.

But I'm looking now. Staring.

Trying to burn it into memory so I can describe it,

so I can say to my friend: yes, it's pale,

it's pale and there are things on it,

and I live here but I don't actually see it.

This is the first time I'm seeing it,

and it will probably be the last.