Kitchens
James Grinwis
Don't ask "how did we get there."
Ask "what's your name."
But what would eel their creeps?
He opens the door
and a bat spins wearily.
A mustachioed bat.
An earless bat. A bat
like yellow wallpaper.
It flops on a bulb
and bursts into flame.
The forks lift their tines.
A dog folds like kindling
into a sneeze. A weary dog.
A dog with huge toenails.
An essay is written:
"The Kitchen as Engagement
for Disunion." I'm green galoshes
in their hands. Their hands
keep cutting up celery.
Their hands shine.
Astronomical, mucronated
hands. Hemlock. Oak. Pinyon
pine. He spits at the drain.
She feeds a cat fragments of pork.
A cat like cold sheets.
Wet sheets. Red, sexy sheets.
There are clouds. Eight lemonish clouds.
Like ostiaries. Like oven racks.
There are cartons. Of crackers.
Of wine. Leaves. Bridal
garments. There are levels.
Of existence. And honeymoons.
Voice mail. Toast. Don't ask
"when will it happen." Or "what
will be unveiled." Ask
"how about a trip to shore."
The forks clink. Towels droop.
Spoons, and spatulas.
Broilers. Onions. A salad
with no dressing.
A dressing with no trousers.
Saladless trousers.
Greens. Reds. Universal hues.
On the table is a bowl.
In the bowl is a question.
A bottle breaks. A candle
sputters. Sinks. Glassware.
A glass with wine. A sherbert
glass. A youthful, fathomless
glass. In the question is a question.
In the bowl, a small bird, a fruit.
Tables of Content
Seventeen (Fall 2003)
Sixteen (Spring 2003)
Fifteen (Fall 2002) Fourteen (Spring 2002)
Thirteen
(Fall 2001) Twelve (Spring 2001)
Eleven (Fall 2000)
Ten (Spring 2000)
Nine (Fall 1999) Eight (Spring 1999)
Seven, (Fall 1998) Six, (Spring 1998)
Five (Fall 1997) Four (Winter/Spring 1997)