since middlemarch
I have been waiting for
a mantra in a modern tongue,
a poem to start revolutions,
a swansong to break hearts -
by now your promises
have candied together,
making a mess of the kitchen.

now your words create
zephyrs that blanket the knives,
sending them spinning
across countertops,
and I have eaten out
for the past two months.

the forks are awash
in your dreary monsoons,
so that papayas and melons
taste of petrichor, metallic and
sandy, dusted over with spite.

you have even broken
the hinges of the icebox;
the door sways, in and out
a miserable draft to cool
my cheeks and ice my hands
after I've cracked the windows
trying to force them open -

but they are sealed shut,
thick from the molasses
you spilled there last winter
and never bothered to clean.
the sills are sticky
just like your heart.