Eight

The eighth night I reached for the same box

and then didn't.

Stood in the aisle with my hand out,

not touching anything.

Took something else. Got home.

Opened the cabinet—

the shelf was empty.

A small rectangle of dust at the back edge.

I stood there longer than made sense.

Seven nights the same thing.

I'm not sure I even liked it.

The first night was necessity,

the second was just easier,

by the fourth it was something else—

the pot the same weight, the water

measured without measuring,

the timer set to the same minutes.

I cooked the new thing.

It took longer than I expected.

I didn't know when to stop stirring.