for one moment she stops and presses her abdomen agains the sink

bone china in my right hand.
up against the wrist, the white
slice of handle, the blue river vein:
a baby could be crying. a kitten

mouth is open, violent and right.
red brown food skids across the
linoleum, skids into the places
where things fall and disappear

in a kitchen: my ankles crack.
from the other rooms other lives,
my husband's smell is thick.
the cleaver is out on cutting board

the cutting board slides into the places
where things slide and emerge clean,
up against my wrists, my fingers,
slick water and the pinprick of blood

hanging from white bone
china. there is no clock.
there is time, or not time.
blood, or not blood. red, or not red.

this place, or not this place.
this kitchen, or not this kitchen
this day, or not this day.
in this sink, or not in this sink

the scald rises like a baby's red bottom
up on the bone white, a gifted hive,
a matter of principle, the place
where things burn when

erupt and come dirty, the kitchen.

maggie may ethridge