Kitchen

A messy poem about the messiness of loving and living.

Kitchen
This is a kitchen where children could roam barefoot,
splashing in the heat. There are oranges all over the tiles,
green onions blossom in the corners of counters,
an orchestra of plates cracks the smeared windows
with their ode to sunlight.

This is a kitchen on the earth; at its heart, where a table
rises and widens, enclosed by the comfort of musical chairs,
our guts knit into each other, swimming in afternoon sleep
and love-making, while the dirt and the myriad lives in his
womb are listening.

This is a kitchen on the earth where the only danger
is the clinking of mid-air cutlery, blunt, useless,
because we delight in eating with our love-making
hands with which we built this kitchen, sometime,
when dream-dancing.

This is a kitchen on the earth. You will recognise it by
the noise of naked, toothless wars to-be, and the
infinitely intimate rain spilling into your slight heartache
as you stop your entering, torn at trying to resist this
wolven call.

You may come in and notice the two of us sprawled under
the table, and your earlobe may tingle, then ache.
You may want to step back in fear of the meanings
of foreign left-overs, yet your feet will casually stroll into
the knowing that nobody has ever taken nourishment here,
no body except our body, giant and whole, some long
time ago in a perpetually possible future.

There will be roaches and bugs bruising around,
there will be undigested carcasses springing from
the foundation pillars, and there will be leaves
that whisper you in, and the sea, all-loving
and tempting from the central sink,
the safety of being washed
completely open, salted,
and engulfed.

Seabirds may offer their feathers wherever walls
are deemed necessary, planets will spin in closer
and faster towards the fall of evening, to adjust
the consistency of darkness because, so far,
we have only met at night-time,
in a dream, in this kitchen,
our kitchen,
a spring in your step, my step --