The kitchen towel absorbs the sweat
of steamed beans, splattered beet juice.
Into the gravy boat I pour every man is a grave.
For I have crammed all the names
of dirt into my mouth and dug my way
out with words as shovels.
Tonight I let fire grope the house.
Let the rats on the roof be
spelled backwards. Into the pan I burn
every man is a cloud-shaped bruise.
And yours, yours the contours of a country
no longer ours. I let the fire ruin
the curtains and rattle the windows.
The charred beans scatter across
the floor like roaches. On the chair
your coat with its puppet shoulders.
Your puppet show. Into the smoke I carve
every man is a smeared shadow of himself.
So tonight I let fire unbolt the doors,
and the trees on the block dance
like black-veined feathers. You’re the void
between these lines. Every man is a void
between these lines. I lock your shadow
with its mothballs in the hallway closet
and let the fire suffocate what’s left.
This house is no longer yours to shovel.
This house is no longer a grave.