LAURIE KOENSGEN

Your Sonar

When the mixing bowl—too big 
for the dishwasher—goes in anyway, 
rotating jets of spray spurt down 
the steel grey dome. 
You catch Foley sounds 
of a submarine’s pings, some 
twenty thousand leagues 
under the sea. 
You take that steam punk junket, 
go all Nautilus and Nemo. 
You are gone for a long while.

Back at the sink, in suds to your elbows— 
saucer-eyed goldfish blink 
in the brimming Ziplocs 
you are gripping in both fists.