Pressure Cooker Noise
Our pressure cooker has
a dullish sheen
and the News
shows detritus, a bomb
or mine
and if it exploded
it would pulverize her
soft face, my vegetable.
Hisses from the kitchen,
she assures me, not dangerous,
‘All cooking ever is,
is order out of chaos.’
That’s because her fear
of imminent spills
and the mess
makes her swear.
Crash of expectancy,
the interior resounds
and I am on the edge
of my seat.
Then she says,
‘As if you’d care.’
The little dark,
the rectangular skylight,
flares with burning worlds.
Those vastnesses
positioning
cleanliness as near
to God
as your hand is
to a bottle of domestic
disinfectant, dear,
harm is in the taste
of carrots, swedes,
the rabbit. Our
domestic harmony,
it will make us eat our words.
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