In the kitchen now coaxing life from zygote.
Onions thin as viscera, ginger membrane flayed,
a neglected melon split at the exact moment its flesh
matches the scent of the sun.
Loosed from urgency’s obstinate grip, my hands search the seams
for fallen things, scraps dropped and left
for lack of light.
Where stovetop meets counter.
Where the window meets night.
It’s no easy feat, acknowledging the space between.
After all, a body learns to put its trust in solid planes,
in compression, in constraint.
The cilia lose their range and fail to discern
their own diminishment. Long out of practice tipping past edges,
the blood forgets vertigo.
It keeps a steady pace.
Devotion to constancy grows hard by rote
rather than by crucible or braid.
It serves as its own governor,
this illusion of control.
It knits frame to page. Seals each passage
and fixes the address.
But these kitchen walls hide fissures
where fragments stir.
The restless seed. The surging core.
Ladders and tunnels.
Jewels and bones.
I pull apart the solid edges and loose
what’s pressed between desire
and the denial of it.
Unfurl bolts of yellowed lace, tatted dill, flattened leaf.
A fur of flour and oil-bled ink.
The first lost objects tumble from the folds.
Then the misplaced lyric.
The fecund stink.
Having lived so long along a spectrum of dark,
vines now grow from the eyes.
A sound between pulse and growl.
Hunger rising to meet mine,
ready to peel skin
from the naked meat.