A cutting board a crumb pile a broad back a house from a lazy susan. A lazy susan spinning a tornado house. A cutting board built into the kitchen a cutting board: a drawer made up with neglect ful gentler featherbed hours hours hours.
My feet catch on the nails in the woodwork the woodworker left in the wood. Why would he leave such sharp things so invisible in this home? What of the soft things what of the palms of my hands? Softened with the pastry dough handfuls of sawdust teeth clenching dough hands granite hands What of the butter in the dish on the board the shaving cream on the mirror. Suppose a fistful of butter. Suppose a fistful of butter spread on bread. Suppose butter.
A butter knife lack lust er butter spreader spreader spreader louder for the softness, the sweet ness delicate buds what of the soft things what soft things the flower petals sewn to sheets you mirror lost you unrecognized unrecognized map unrecognizeable body tacked on body unrecgonize king comes home from work king comes leave here leave the butter in the dish, leave the cutting board crumbs leaver leave the susan spinning. Leaving here
The king walks through the front door what do we typically find whatever empty bowls we used to use are not useful anymore. He leaves here with the bottle of gin some cranberries
a handful of lemons slices slices leaves here with fistfuls of bruises lemons leaves here with bruised lemons bags of them all for sweeter. Suppose limes instead suppose mesh bag of lemons left on the counter suppose her dizzy spins the door close suppose the lemons rot suppose rotted body.
The baker breaks open breaker’s means bloodier in morning maybe baby baby open the cabinet an egg’s left and the baby bird been screaming cabinet’s still empty, baby still empty what do? A still is still in the flooding waters waiting wading silently no real move meant for stale joints stale bones stale stale bread for dinner for breakfast.
The baker breaks open let the yolks flood a yolk flood better than a flood flood better still
a butter flood for the baker to wait through five thousand yolks mud is clean in skin mud is dirty in dough is grit all glitter in the skin the baker walks through a front door carries the bouquets of torn thistles thistles for the doorways hangs thistles for February the high ceilings the door hinges falling off mold growing in the bed but the baker hangs the light like a light switch like a switch like a switch over loving brighter
the mixer pulsing pushing when the wine poured pours pouring purring wood pantry doors splinter scars the stairs too stairs many stairs and the lips like lips softness grass on concrete gaze on gaze toward the cork screw please please place the open window against the fireplace pronounce pots and pans music toward the thick white frame please please the name is not lost the name is tongue heavy the body is not lost, it is missing. The name, the long lost name, is missing inside the pots and pans.
there is a calmness breaking point boiling thick plums bubble and fall quickly quick turn the wick up side down for your whole heart to read read in a steaming stream scorch seam split seeming terror to terror in half. Consider the fear. Consider the rouge on the cheek and the wine in the teeth, the sweet wine in the teeth and the soreness of feet. This means a door alone unlocked, a door alone unlocked for knocking. This means a window, an open window, an open window waiting. A wide frame. A thin glass. A broken door. A wailing guess.
Emily Griffin is a transplant poet currently working out of Portland, OR. She has released two chapbooks: Radiance of the Grit (Where Are You Press, 2012) and something safe (cupid & baby cupid, 2013). Her most recent work, poems that are meant to engage and tangle with Gertrude Stein's Tender Buttons, is forthcoming from Fog Machine (summer, 2016).