kitchen-writing

red sun morning, sliding up the tops of trees; aspens and pines cut the fat drop of honey,
spill a little in my teacup — orange pekoe. a shimmer on the surface when i bump
the tabletop, steady my yellow-eyed daisies with a thin, pale wrist. pen and paper wait
like patient pupils, my faithful, dog-eared companions; as i contemplate how to write
my lover’s green eyes, ceaseless interruptions flush my cheeks, a flurry of tawdry requests
– the pesky doorbell. i chew the end of the pen to bits, imagining my lover’s blue eyes like the deepest mountain river, paling in the autumn sunlight; or, the under-feathers
of the brightest jay circling in mid-flight; or, a hyacinth, the budding blue – wait, indigo.

supper’s on, vapors of garlic and onion filling the kitchen –
at my table, a sheet of unfilled lines,
the pending violet night.