She inhales — all at once — sucking in
the aromas bathing her senses.
She begins — softly, assertively,
controlling the release of her breath —

an ordinary day.

She’s whipped awake by icy electric
lashes of water pricking her lids.
Rubbing away the stingful pinches,
she slaps on lather from ears to toes

in ordinary ways.

The cavities between seats are filled
by latecomers; she watches, indifferent —
Sunday church, fellowship only
on Sunday. The pulse of her breath fades —
sustaining — anticipating some-
thing different. Hi, hello, how are you,
I’m well and how are you, and onward.
But, hush, the sermon’s about to commence.

The language is but ordinary.

Resonant, the sermon’s a tuning fork,
struck by oaths within the pastor’s throat.
Seized by these vibrations, she desires
to understand what pitch is in phase

with this ordinary day.

She hums a rare contemplative hymn:
Have mercy on me, Lord, a sinner. . . .
Released from the grip of the day,
she exhales what remains of her breath.

-Tsai