The Kitchen
when I walked into the kitchen that night
the clock on the oven blinked
a boxy blue 7:13
you sat with your back to the door
shoulders rounded over the square table
there had been something cooking
with red or black pepper, and perhaps
you’d already choked on it
alone wiping your eyes and nose
if I’d known you were reading Gordian’s letters
I’d have slipped hunger back under my blouse and snuck away
but when the screen door banged you turned to me
asked me to sit at the table with you
even with all those spices in the air
Abandoned
condemned contemplation
abandoned building in open land
fragmented wind sweeps in
through unseen crannies
wafting wooden musk and grassy gust
rusted joints creek inarticulately
crow’s rustic refrain cracks against walls
waking every phantom reposed within
attention hushes through overgrown grasses
lost among the acres, closing in on tenuous sanity
strenuous system of prayers drying in the sun
sky so pristine it reflects the weathered rooftop
sagging over the space it holds
Sarah L. Webb is an Assistant Professor in the Department of English at the University of Illinois Springfield. In 2013, She created Colorism Healing, an international initiative through which she hosts writing contests, publishes books, curates exhibitions, produces videos, and more. Her writing has been published online and in print in venues like OVS, Dig, Blackberry, and Roll.
Steel Toe Review 