poems, prose and
other pretty words
© 2010-2014
Chel Mercado

                    In the Kitchen Aisle

One stainless steel kitchen knife
and it goes -- sharp side down --
into the crate with the rest of the apartment's dirty silverware.
"Silver," the box  -- now broken down --
in the closet read, but she thought it more of a "grey."

"It's all the same," he had shrugged,
with dry lips pursing to one side
and blue eyes -- rolling down --
turning his head away.

"but it's not," came the protest, in
a volume -- falling down --
that did not turn the head back,
nor the sharp side of the knife up,
nor the shade of the utensils that would lie
              by a smashed bowl against a wall
              to a color more like what the box
              had promised her in that day in July,
"it's not."