In Her Hands

My daughter places a clear bottle filled

with water on the steps. Its shoulders 

and torso hold all the world. She puts 
the bottle in the window of a clothing store. 
The mannequin’s ankles are bare, feet wear

no shoes. Cars pass and through the glass

are distorted. Squat shot transformed 

to double decker bus of blue.

Purposefully placed, the vessel. In the video

the music praises her hands. By-passers

are taller, thinner. The cupboard of the world 
opens its shutters and the rain falls out. We

carry whole armloads of clean laundry

passing, exclaiming at the imbalance of the

weather in the world, in the bottle. The sun
arrives. 

The sturdy neck supports her thesis
and I play her recycling soliloquy again, 

drink my orange juice from a round glass 

etched with a mailbox with our name 

and a carving of a girl with a lasso 

circling wisely home.