Kitchen, Scene I, Lauren Foley

in kitchens, everything echoes—stove the ticking pulse point of the room’s thumb, disposal the stuttering of the sink’s cleared throat, blinds the split eyelids transferring parceled wind and darkness onto marbled tile. the kitchen echoes here, speaks first to itself, then nods to its occupants. see:

voice one (n.): a rough-smooth thing, like the ridges a butter knife leaves down a serrated yellow lip; the intake of air just before a punchline, helium-swoop, balloon-pop; an omniscient smirk, or the exact face a cat makes before touching one padded paw to a full glass of water.

in English, the words kitchen and home are synonymous. think the shoes tip-toed on the mat by the door. think the oven light that winks before blinking out for the fifth time that summer. think the swollen fruit gathered at the edge of the countertop, not quite dangerous, inch from edge.

voice two (v.): to gather the collar of a black jacket, waterproof-slick and smooth fabric crumpling, folds overlapping like skin wrinkling between thumb and forefinger; to thunder, but only in the context of a hurricane trapped between vertebrae and sternum; to try to deceive and fail.

in dreams, the kitchen clock runs backward, hours stacking like loose change on the tabletops seamed by split-thread initials of people who never lived there. hands strain city-wide power failure through inherited cheesecloth, draining the home into a glass. one paw.