I throw out the frozen meat, the expired ideas,
The rotten relationships, and many leftovers
I keep the green heart, the fresh mind,
The juice of life, and sweet memories
I wipe the sink, the stove, and the floor with my sleeves
I dust the Chinese teacups I inherited from a garage sale
I apologize to the silver spoons I never touched
I separate the vinegar and the oil from their rusted set
They have been standing side to side for years
And they never cared for one another
I bring down the cleaver from its rack
Shinning there in pride amongst relatives of sharp knives
I put them to rest in the lower drawer of the cabinet
No more short cuts
I fill my scratched mug with black coffee
He lives through it all with me: the bad and the good times
I dim the light to its minimum
It occurs to me that my kitchen has no windows
A small table and one chair in the corner
I’ve never invited anyone to my kitchen
It has been always the hidden part of me.
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