Kitchen Stove

You are the tender light beneath the stove that keeps the kitchen warm,

The one fluent in my language that I barely hold a lexicon to.

The pale crash of sea foam on rocks, and the trailing watercolour people drive out to photograph.

You are the moon flitting through parting leaves, and the moan of a well-loved bed after a long days work.

You are the orchestra to every piece of music that soothes the soul,

The divot carved from my cheek when I smile too hard, a kiss from the goddess’ above.

You are a sculptor that forms me in calloused, sure hands instead of throwing me into the kiln to burn.

You are the medicine that cures my aching throat when sick,

And the sting of a fresh tattoo that reminds me I am here.

The driftwood heart that has found me, naked and shaking, upon an isle made for me by sharp fangs and taking fingers.

But you do not take when you find me. You dress me in the finest cloth and detangle the salt from my hair with sure strokes, tentative and tender.