THE KITCHEN, INDEXED
by Ira Goga
A glass knife. A candle. Chamomile.
A handsaw. A hand towel.
A sharps container. Stones
that may or may not be hollow,
holding crystals. Ceramic tributes
to the moon. A no-kill mousetrap.
Carnations. Carnal studies. Blue thread,
to make stitches. Matches, to be struck.
I wanted to understand form,
the beginning of things. I deconstructed.
I stopped a clock, pulled its hands
from its hard face. I undressed
beneath the incandescent overhead.
I couldn't name myself, but I renamed myself.
In a bowl, strawberries thawed
in their own wet red. I couldn't think
too hard, which worried me. Because
there was no answer I wanted. To be a man
to be a tree / or something less / like a plank.
What I saw, I pinned down. I listed
what I knew to be true. Road salt
in an open dish. An hourglass full
of pink sand. A ruler. Assuming what I saw
was honest. The name? It means watchful
(later I found, in Latin, wrath. Oops).
It is my duty, dear reader, to never look away.