BY JANE HIRSHFIELD
You are trying to solve a problem.
You’re almost certainly halfway done,
You take some salt, some alum,
and put it into the problem.
Its color goes from yellow to royal blue.
You tie a knot of royal blue into the problem,
as into a Peruvian quipu of colored string.
You enter the problem’s bodegas,
its flea markets, souks.
Amid the alleys of sponges and sweets,
of jewelry, spices, and hair combs,
you ponder which stall, which pumpkin or perfume, is yours.
You go inside the problem’s piano.
You choose three keys.
One surely must open the door of the problem,
if only you knew only this:
is the quandary edible or medical,
a problem of reason or grief?
It is looking back at you now
with the quizzical eyes of a young, bright dog.
Her whole body pitched for the fetch,
the dog wants to please.
If only she could ascertain which direction,
what object, which scent of riddle,
and if the problem is round or elliptical in its orbit,
and if it is measured in foot-pounds, memory, or meat.