Dichotomies

by Elizabeth Burk

Rubberbands and paperclips mate on my messy desk—
what to tie together, what to let float free? String theory

is learning how to choose between clutter
and empty space. Beauty sat on my lap early, screamed

for attention although I would have preferred
a life-long courtship with Justice.

A turn signal points left, a finger points right.
When I told my son he was half Jewish, half Christian,

he asked which half was which. The orphans lived
in the apartment upstairs, raised by my Jewish grandmother.

Christmas is a hallmark jubilee, a tree dripping with yellow stars.
Diners are the only safe place to eat on Christmas Eve.

Before psychology I practiced astrology, tables
of diurnal planetary motion, trigonometry, delicious symbols—

Venus, Mars, Neptune, a house of dreams, of travel, of snakes,
sex and death. Paper, cough drops, candles, lamps,

pens, tissues, teacup, tag hanging from soggy string. Back
to string theory. Logic is over-rated, I tell my patients,

while I package their wanderings with purple ribbons.