litany
step out of the shower
your cheeks flushed and skin warmed
slowly, carefully, gingerly
make your way downstairs.
at the foot of the staircase
notice a stationary streak of dog
leather-white body oriented sideways,
legs rigidly splayed outwards.
notice her form, sun-dappled
from the swaying leaves outside.
notice her as she notices you,
tilts her head curiously
then slumps back to equilibrium.
in the dining room
hear the chords of a hymn
solid and strong and light softly
blasting from laptop speakers.
(it is the choir of the National Taiwan University,
your mother will later inform you.)
hear how it is interrupted by the
machine-gun rattle of a balloon pump
operated by a sister who, in a few moments,
will come, hands covered in paint and hot glue,
to demand help on her science project,
which you will pretend to be annoyed by.
sit on the couch. breathe the sizzle of
your mother’s pan from the kitchen
as she fries a pork katsu.
sit. relish your life.