Breakfast Dishes
I stand at the sink, where women go to mourn. As he leaves the kitchen I scrub the cutting board furiously, but as he clears the door I stop, and the tears, the fat tears, they roll off the edges of my cheeks. They roll off the tip of my nose and fall to my hands, now clasped above the soapy water. This is where women have said their prayers, dishes stacked around them like a shroud, their pew the steadying comfort of counter against belly. From here, buried in the pretense of women’s work, I escape bewildered eyes, and do not have to acknowledge what they confirm: I am alone. He and I share passion, we share a warm and pumping, vital heart, but we will never truly share our thoughts. My mind is mine, alone. The front door opens, slams behind my angry and sheepish lover, and I shake with sobs. Each dripping dish a lamentation for what we’ve lost.