It had all the props for an appropriate life
The ladelling, the block of knives
(teeth slotted into gaping holes)
Noticed the weight of feet against the tiles
The newspaper sheets just soaking up
The confession dropped, this liquid life.
Broken the room dedicated to
The welding of energy for the day
Their stoking to inflame the cheek
The fork amplified in its embrace.
Perhaps the years of pangs of worth
I believed, were naive, brittle
Thinking of forest fires upon the screen
And looked for love in what was metal.
The scores still settling in the skin
Of the goose my mother plucked with her own hands
It was the softest they have ever felt
For death tenders there the hands of man
And still does now
I flick the switch
The kitchen anticipates it’s light
But instead, the kettle hilt
Liquidless, and left now, to boil dry.
I lean against the granite surface
And watch the kettle slowly start to gape
Steam fizz from underneath the plastic hatch
The deliciousness of seeing something break.
No longer am I the simple child
Who assumed kitchen as a place of love
No longer do I seek to find
Nor know when I have had enough
My finger still, upon the switch
The kettle shrieks, then screams, then asks
In acrid streaks of blue-black smoke
If it better to remove the mask
It has assumed
And I have bought
From the passed-down familial sense
That to be domestic is to be ‘dutiful;
To produce, they call it ‘consequence’.
The clean attempt at cutting space
Though my finger trembles on the tab
As the kettle threatens at the mains
And screams and screams and belches ash
For even it has found its moisture
Which has managed in itself to move
And lost beyond the tabled effort
In the attempt to assemble what was love.