To a Lover

There are days when you are cucumber.
I sharpen my knife
before I peel your skin off, pretending it is flesh on bones.
Inside you, there is nothing but pulp-
fiction lying in wait for the
next lover to immortalize you in poetry.
I slice you into thin pieces
until you are almost opaque, as transparent
as a memory. Sometimes, I make stars out of you,
or rabbits, depending on where he slept
the night before or if he came home
early.

At times, you are fresh meat.
I keep you under running water for
more minutes than is
necessary. This is because
I don't want your blood on my hands.The
meat looks wrinkled after this prolonged
exposure to water, as if it is hurt by my
insecurity.
I wonder if you look this patient,
this nonplussed while you lie on some
anonymously dingy motel bed
Unlike him, I do not justify your
weaknesses nor do I find
your vulnerability attractive.I wear gloves
to keep my knuckles clean. At times, I
make like a god and
pound at you with my newly bought pestle
until you are as malleable as my heart.I like
putting you in a grinder. It makes me believe
you are human and can be subject to
impermanence.

I have seen you before. You have this way
of wrinkling your nose when you are nervous,
making you look as unthreatening as raw fish and
as unattractive.
I believe that I am not imagining things.
This is why I never make you into soup. You do not deserve
any allusion to warmth, nor kindness.You are
neither as essential as sugar or salt. You
do not have the same confidence that vinegar has.
Your skin may be as smooth as caramel but you seem to me
as naive as fresh pudding, as interesting probably as ordinary spices,
like thyme or rosemary.

In this kitchen, I try to find an end to you.
All around me are the bricks that built my life,
that define who I am. Here, I am free to reinvent you.
Outside, he may consider you kingdom, a harbor,
a masterpiece. But within these walls,
you are in bits and pieces,
wrapped up in foil or sometimes stowed away for future use.
You are reduced to elements, to momentary necessities.
But you never go away. You live here- sleeping on our bed,
peeping through jars,
rotting gracefully on the wooden shelves. You take
the shape of steam rising from noonday kettles.
Your message is darkness and silence.