Her Kitchen by Lee Berg

Two small steps climb up,

and softness hardens

into brittle white,

recording

every step,

a tattle-tale,

despite tip-toed

discretion.



Golden doors whisper open,

but then shout shut,

to tell on me,

on my trespass,

on my teenage fingers

and their thoughtless touch.



Cool counters, wisely sage,

more forgiving

in appearance,

quietly accepting box,

but ringing cereal

poured so slowly

in her bowl,

in her kitchen.



Her voice

startles the silence.

Help yourself,

eat what you want…

what are you eating?

Her hands grasp

a blood-red drink,

I first think is tomato,

but her mouth

is hard,

telling,

unforgiving.


Lee Berg