The familiar metal glide hiss
rises beneath the church mum shush
stream of faucet water through the aerator
into the pit of the bean boiling pot
planted in the kitchen sink basin.
Darted eyes see the glint of
an exclamation points blade
begin its baton tumble
from the bars of the overhead rack.
Can a knife be caught, snapped
out of thinning air
between fingertip's
unzipped
wails?
By a handle, perhaps.
Certainly not
by the hairs of toes.
Misplaced for convenience.
Hidden for necessity.
Between jars to drink from
and forks and spoons. To eat
what is on the menu.
Can a knife be caught, snapped
out of screaming air
between thick palms
resting day's weight
on cool cast iron?
Mother shush falls
beneath ringing ears and heart's throb.
Hands do not move.
The blade clatter swallowed
by the nine part percussion section
that followed it down.
The second hand moves once more.
The pot, full, burbles to the drain.
One blink. One more.
Turn off the faucet and the kitchen light.
Go to bed. There is nothing on the menu
tonight. Tomorrow, perhaps.
Breathe tomorrow.
