by Carrie Greenlaw

He’s been in a woman’s kitchen;
he knows the art of locating
a drinking glass, the good corkscrew.

He can rinse the bubbles
from a long-necked twist-top,
leave it dripping by the sink
and show himself out.

A woman’s kitchen is a woman’s kitchen:
behind every closed cupboard door
white cups nest perfectly
butt to lip
and spoons know the spilling
of ground coffee and sugar,
jolts of domestic dirtmess
between breakfast and the morning dishrag.

Cream-clouded water rattles down the pipes.
He lifts the sink strainer and watches
the drain gape open
like a trout’s mouth.

His hands flip off the lightswitch by feel
and he stands in the dark,
eyes prying the static of window screen
from twilight beyond
and he imagines
a world

where his body
can crawl up a mountain
handless,
footless,
boneless,
bloodless,
just skin
slithering up a mountain
under the sun’s byzantine gaze.

Carrie Greenlaw is a poet and artist residing on the North Side of Pittsburgh. Her work has been published in The Pittsburgh Poetry Review. She lives low and lives slow.