Dishes
I’m at the kitchen sink washing dishes
I take note
of the blue sponge saturated
soaking up food bits
and stale water and leftover soap
the stainless steel pot, now stained
and my hands, withered and wet
His funeral was this morning
I tuned in on facebook live
the church was packed with over 200
people, his siblings at the podium
I will miss being the four of us
now three his
father was a pastor his
body went too soon I
arrived to the date an hour
later and said sorry I’m late
I was at a funeral and she
agreed to a second date
The water collects at the bottom
of the basin the drain plugged
up with all the goop I’m scrubbing off
I mold the sponge
around my palm––an extension of me––we
circle the edge of the popcorn pot
we circle the crevice of
the bottom lemon is good to
bring back the shine of steel
I squeeze its juice seeds onto the
silver rust and buff
my fingernails dig into the slippery rind
We went climbing for our first date
after discussing death over coffee
her body above mine
her ass an angel
I haven’t wanted somebody
in months and here you are
When I got home a new
book of poetry was on
my doorstep and I started
reading it before I finished bringing
in my groceries
I sat on the floor
my front door wide open
the frozen fruit melting
into the paper bag
The water is warm and sudsy
I have touched every centimeter
of this pot’s surface
can I say that about my own body
I would like to touch every centimeter
of you and soon
I’m learning that life is short
every centimeter of him
now particles of wind
and salt and the sponge
is a dirty thing but I love it’s
dampness, love that it needs
to cry in order to work
and I showed up to
the date red-faced and puffy-eyed
and honest and you didn’t run
so naturally I wrote
a song about you on the
drive home with my groceries
and think of you now
and him while I’m squeezing this
sponge this lemon this life
polishing shining and
everything is either a funeral
or a first date and sometimes
its both
