Chaos Theory

by VA Smith

Watch me bathe myself in the cool
blues, grays, and sages of the living
room I have filled with muted
leathers, nubby, Klee-esque rugs,
Carrara marble poured over mantel
and counter.

When his stainless-steel bowl flies
into the refrigerator, bounces cole
slaw across the floor, confettis
cabinets with cabbage, my eyes
close to Yo Yo Ma bowing Bach’s
Cello Sonata in G Minor Prelude,
open to shut Mary Oliver’s
Dream Work.

I have havened home against
addiction, bi polarities political
and chemical, democracies and
partner promises that lean toward
falling, failing.

Slipping from chaos, I fast walk
intervals into October’s pumpkined
light, Earth’s axis tilting predictable
degrees further from our sun, its
shards shimmering through giant
maples, sturdy pines, feigning safety,