to the lover

There are days when you are cucumber.
I sharpen my knife
before I peel your skin off, pretending it is flesh on bones.
Inside you, there is nothing but pulp--
fiction lying in wait for the
next lover to immortalize you in poetry.

I slice you into thin pieces
until you are almost opaque, as transparent
as a memory. Sometimes, I make stars out of you,
or rabbits, depending on where he slept
the night before or if he came home early.

At times, you are fresh meat.
I keep you under running water for
more minutes than isnecessary. This is because
I don't want your blood on my hands.The
meat looks wrinkled after this prolonged
exposure to water, as if it is hurt by my
insecurity.I wear gloves
to keep my knuckles clean. At times, I
make like a god andpound at you with my newly bought pestle
until you are as malleable as my heart.It makes me believe
you are human and can be subject to
impermanence.

In this kitchen, I try to find an end to you. All around me are
the bricks that built my life,that define who I am.
Here, I am free to reinvent you.
Outside, he may consider you a kingdom,
a harbor,a masterpiece. But within these walls,you are in
bits and pieces,wrapped up in foil or sometimes
stowed away for future use.You are reduced to elements,
to momentary necessities. But you never go away.
You live here-- sleeping on our bed, peeping through jars,
rotting gracefully on the wooden shelves. You take
the shape of steam rising from noonday kettles.
Your message is darkness and silence.