In a Kitchen Without Knives

An entire cauliflower

chopped into a bowl

of tiny teeth.

For my next trick—

a black hole,

and I see that

I may have been wrong.

Heaven is not a box

of tissues

screaming. It’s not

even the white kidskin

glove in the display case.

And hell is too obvious:

a rattle, a constant

ringing, an empty

or full ( )

a. syringe

b. can of meat

or the ten-foot wide

C-band satellite

in my aunt Viv’s yard.

From her kitchen,

I can see all of East Asia,

just not my own car

in the driveway.

Of course, these are not

the only choices.

How about

your mother’s hand

in the garbage

disposal, red

pouring down

all her fingers.

How about

the way she looks

at you, her lips

shaping the white

O in I’m OK

without sound.

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