Still Life, Wusthof in Hand
My husband leans against the counter,
chopping onions, julienning bell peppers,
his back to the door. For him, the kitchen
is the closest thing to religion.
Like a Cubist painting, there is horror
in his precision. His hands so calloused
in this windowless room, the night woven
into knotted ropes. Somewhere there is a light on
that shouldn’t be, a baby crying, a waning
crescent. In his temple, a quiet that steals
moments away, breaks plates into cerulean shades.
I have my own recipe for salvation—
leatherette panties, vise grips, a can of Crisco,
chiffonade of jimsonweed, but instead he fingers
the sauté, pauses, says it needs something else.
My eyes trace the meniscus of the wine glass.
I imagine the knife in my hands.
