whale bones

Wrenches clatter downwards through the cloud of pots and cast iron pans

inside the joints of all tools the only constant consists of concepts

even consciousness eventually collapses enveloping continuity

eventually cooking becomes baking becomes burnt

a twist of a purse / the bent knee of a skirt

and still amongst the flash fire the gas and the char,

still, something, must be presented.

Calamity they once called me

'they' are on this day nobody

so at the moment I go by nothing.

you've your legs crossed

and the table cloth helps not with hiding

you've the heel bust off your right shoe

I can tell by the way you bite your lip

when I set this plate in front of you

and also by the way you're slouching.

They used to call you Vicky.

Only so that when they did you'd know

how little they cared about

what name you had actually been given.

I figure I touched a nerve

as you look away

pouring towards the ceiling

like it was the top of your foot

the back of your knee

your hip

your palm,

your face.

you take a bite

the steam wafts through you porously

and

I've been on the subject of you

for so long

by fork down both shoes removed

I'm rubbing the spaces between your toes

and you

grin, and already know too much.

I shut my mouth

the table vanish

the chairs standoffish

the consonance of our touch

our bodies maintain internal rhythm

rhyme between us belonging to

the assonance of our past...

alliteration, is not a topic

of which we spoke,

unless in hushed onomatopoeia

we cut from each other's shade

we gut from each other's tone

everything we've ever been

reinvented by one another

with instinct so honest

your shame and secret become me

my vulnerability leaves you writhing

and in the hot box of the kitchen floor

we playfully pressed blades

against each other's throats.

simply waiting for our lips to part.

as one of us tries to breathe.