echo on glass

in my grandmother’s kitchen, there is a window to a different world,
a slice in the wall that hollows out space
flattens it like a hand against dough
so that we can press our fingers through

they come away sticky
the fiber of this alternate come away from its backing,
a moment of interaction enough
for glue to crumble
components to slide

there are other sets of hands that seek
with a greediness mirrored in our own
and we learn to stand on tiptoe
watching them ply the same space,
our breaths caught and hushed
for fear of an unknown that grasps but does not reveal

in the end, all that brings us away,
has the ability to crack our fascination along fault lines,
is the rough call of our grandmother’s voice

the other fades into mere reflection
as the rigidity of our world falls back into our fingers
but the other hands will be waiting
and we wonder,
minds called from other tasks later in the day,
if soon there will be a crack
from the persistent knocking of a body on the other side