Anchorite by Talia Borochaner

Anchorite

I have come to admire the smallest of things –

 

the bread my father baked

nestled in warm paper towels

left upon the stubbled brick wall outside of my apartment

to glide along the inside of my glass butter dish

attempting to scrape up every speck of spread.

 

the way the sunlight slants on the dewy grass

in the early morning when no one else is around.

Each blade possessing a tiny pearl

waiting to be plucked.

 

a gas stove’s flame

tickling the bottom of a large silver pot.

soup was the love language of my grandmother.

I have become a fluent speaker

 

the soft hush of a teapot

the moment before the water careens

into a screaming boil.

 

Even myself

-once seen as too soft-

I have come to admire.