You gulp peanuts for breakfast, inscribe solutions in air. You talk over dinner about all you can’t do —or waiting for someday and a hut by the river in a foreign country that hasn’t been harmed by the bankers and the killers and the god who announces, You are all only ants— lifting his boot to wipe out the river. But you have coffee and apples fallen down from the trees in the half-rotting orchards —and knives for the worms, a blind fold for not caring. And a picture of an angel by the bathroom mirror: Someday I will wipe all those wrinkles away—. See? You still can have someday. Take it to the store, and stare at the sales clerk: Someday you will see me as I really am. He wipes the counter and dreams of his rifle: Some day is coming much sooner than you think— as you cherish the late afternoon drink and gnaw and gnaw at your peanuts. Kathryn Levy is the author of the poetry collections Losing the Moon and Reports. Her work has appeared in Slate, Hanging Loose, Cimarron Review, Seattle Review, and many others. Her writing fellowships include awards from Yaddo, MacDowell, and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, among others. She was founding director of the Poetry Exchange and the New York City Ballet Poetry Project.
The Promise
Poem