The hands on their kitchen clock move silently,
I open cupboard doors.
Sorting two entire lives takes time.
I wanted to avoid it after dark,
but really–could this kitchen frighten?
It has fed us visitors
so many Sunday brunches
I can still find memories spattered on the stove.
Arnold and Romelle
pass all these things to us:
crystal, silver, all her diamonds
(which I put in a sandwich bag.) Under a lace tablecloth
I found Romelle’s young face,
my husband’s mother in a wedding announcement.
I could have talked to that face better
than the one that always wore authority.
I might have liked the bride
who Xed recipes in A MODERN KITCHEN GUIDE.
Shortly after midnight
I hang freshly ironed curtains,
step back, straighten, step back,
straighten, wear the motions
that she used to make.