Kitchen

for Charlene

 

Here in this room

where many women go under,

die quiet dishwater deaths,

one woman is holding on:

fingers reaching

for buttons and switches

for Pyrex, for Teflon, for Tupperware

all the gods she prayed to

to protect her

for wax paper dreams

folded in with each sandwich

she wraps and sends out

into the world.

 

She wants to find

a baby on her doorstep

and ask no questions.

She wants to turn to

the man in bed with her and ask

"What have you done with my husband?"

She wants to go back

to her wedding day

and explain.

 

Instead she leaves a note

under the butter dish.

"To whom it may concern:

My heart, this rented space

with hot and cold running water,

two bedrooms and no children.

You are not who I thought you were."

 

When she leaves this room, she leaves for good.

She does not bother to push in her chair.