Natalia Zaretsky
Heisenberg’s Principle of Uncertainty

An observer alters an observed object…

Through the kitchen window
he sees wild gooseberries
with nipple-hard berries.
If he doesn’t look, would
they glisten in the sun the same way?

His body takes up some space
in the car, ready for a morning drive —
and his wife’s body, in a doorframe.
Each wears a habitual goodbye grin.
Would it be different on other faces?

How long does a day or a year
linger in his hands?

A child’s day stretches like rubber;
he — young — is wrapped
in the eternity of love-making;
adult — he doesn’t notice mornings
or evenings: gets up, has coffee,
goes to work and back;
aged — his body hurts from
turning to look back
into his faraway youth.

The mirror in the hallway reflects
spiral stairs behind him,
leading to the bedroom of intimacy,
a family’s dog photo on the wall,
his wife in a house robe,
crossing the corridor to the kitchen.

Would the life of the house be the same
for a different husband of hers?

How to describe all that uncertainty
while standing on one foot, as rabbis say?