The word is you’re going through a bad spell.
I love you in the kitchen but I’m jealous of
the kitchen. Drop a book somewhere in
between us, like halfway. Make a noise
in there. Scratch or cluck, scrape a broad
brush over the canvas—a loud stroke.
I found paint supplies in most of the
kitchen cabinets. Ease cock, the color of
tongue, onto the balance. Hair drifts apart
but finds its thing. All is inevitable. Or
that’s what the kitchen thinks. I repeat a
beer to my brain, endless. It’s water with
a slice of lemon. Eases butter as it melts.
Dip an oar into the cool creek. Like that.
