– after Emily Dickinson
There’s nothing to shatter

on this evening. The window

is open, the neighbours may look.

With my mouth held shut

I fill the saucepan. Black marks,

once boiled-over, flake into the water.

I dwell in possibility,

nothing rarely happens unless

it’s passed through the lips.

My body faces the stove,

the saucepan rests over flame,

I want to boil down my thoughts

having sliced them with a knife,

bluntly. I hold my hands over

the aluminum mouth, allowing time

for each line to sink in. The water bubbles,

steam pushes my palms up, warm

and wet to wipe over my cheeks.