Cinnamon dust flecks on a persimmon mortar
the tang of our stone and bone dinner, that rests stout in the
And all I can hear is the static—by some clock’s syncopated heartbeat,
as my calloused hands constrict the earthenware swell of your pottery class mug.
“No thanks, nothing for now.”
But I am hungry and thirsty for the melodies that rang before in this life kitchen
all the baseline tap-clicks on Formica, a sizzle-snap of avocado oil on skin and sometimes bone
cocooning me in time with our own symphony here—and Now.
Now you speak with no melody, and your turned back accuses
and I am still drinking a cold horchata you made—
yesterday. When the Timex I bought you on your twenty-third birthday beeps a constant and you turn—
I don’t want to play anymore
with the knives you will wash last, some soap still on your elbows—
So I toe a piece of gristle on the carpet to be whistled up into the Electrolux vacuum—later
And say it, “I’m not mad at you anymore.”
Katherine Kim is a sophomore at Newark Academy in Livingston, NJ.