the volta ( drying dishes in the kitchen late at night )

how many poems about this kitchen?

how many tears in this kitchen?

i can’t bear to be looked at sometimes.

but i meant to sleep early tonight

and i’m still here drying dishes in the kitchen.

i’m getting emotional,

it’s always this goddamn kitchen,

and i hear the rain on the conservatory

roof

and that’s enough to cry.

and i wept a few days ago,

wondered where i left my

body, where i left my existence

in all the mess of -

in all the mess.

so i went outside and i

let my feet get wet /

feeling something //

and my writing feels rubbish

and pointless sometimes.

and i’m sorry to the poems

who felt i don’t love them

i promise i do.

i promise i do.

sometimes the weight

of all the prayers said

in my name

and all the love promised

to me hits

me as i dry dishes in my marbled

kitchen and i kneel on the floor

and listen to the rain

and forget how to breathe.

i think endlessly of

good natured smiles

and ‘have a nice day’

and do you remember the store clerk?

who said she loved my hair?

i think of her.

it sticks.

all the love for me sticks.

this is not a world i could

ever be incomplete in.

for all the tears of all

the weight of the gazes i could not

bear,

i cherish a gaze of love.