hold-out kitchen
we are in the kitchen.
ask me the time
the way i break the honeycomb
into your cereal.
backlash. find me
holding your hand
under tables with green fire.
we are thinking
who's the child
when the door is open
for downed dinner
and you are mother
and i am the quiver
between blade, berry,
powdered sugar.
cooking handled vaguely
while we are busy slipping.