The nihilistic shine of spoons
next to knives in the cutlery drawer.
She washes the stains off while I dry,
wiping away each remaining flaw.
Small bubbles burst
and a lemon scented rainbow is no more.
Tepid water drips from her wrists,
forming a puddle on the kitchen floor.
The radio plays a tune, not ours,
when we watch the flight of a solitary jackdaw.
She tells me it is colder out than it looks
as I go to unbolt the door.
Finding a stick, I poke warm grease down the drain
and consider what else I can use it for.
She plays mother while I potter;
steam scalds her hand as she starts to pour.
