My Kitchen

The most fragile of
kitchen utensils in
my array is
the scalpel, the body
attached quivers as
if a seraph was
disapprovingly glaring
from up above.

My hand, it smells of
cheap starlet lips and
croquet burns and
the tendon, strained
by living under. My
hand envies the
flashy, smothering
heat of the electric stove,
as it can be switched at will.
The scalpel can switch too,
not quite the same.

She is the scalpel. The
mother, the aunt, the
sister, the friend, the refuse
the tired, the starlet
and the lipstick, the
hand and the tendon,
the scalpel.