Kitchens I & II

Kitchen I

My hearth
is disinfected, no
host to live culture,
not even in yoghurt
that shines in the sterilised
fridge.

My family of four
can eat off the floor;
the sanitised
table is more comfort-
able.


Immaculate linoleum;
the kitchen curtains
are cutting edge,
while the window pane's
a plane, clear as water.

A yellow sponge
dehydrates
on the edge
of a scoured sink.

I have no appetite.
Across the wall
of a silver bowl,
I am rounded.

Everything is in its place,
on ice, or swathed
in airtight wrap.

The oven is empty,
and clean.
I put in my head,
to see.




Kitchen II

Skirts of herbs
hang from the beam.
I am hulling strawberries,
mercilessly,
have carved a dozen
radish roses.
I have nicked
the maze of my thumb
and sucked
my mineral blood.


Every surface holds
a pot or a pan,
or a stack of plates
or a gang of mugs;
the sticky trail
of stray sugar;
a halo of coffee;

creation
is a matter
of logistics.
The fat pot bubbles.
My windows streak
with condensation;
if I climb
I can inscribe
my name on the pane,
transparently,
and clearly
alive.