the kitchen — yeah, that’s where the gods show up uninvited, plates in hand, laughing while the onions make you weep
(or maybe it’s the broom closet — the one that breathes at 3am, spilling forgotten things back into the light)
you know, sherri washed the dishes but i bought the groceries — so the house isn’t a house, it’s a potter’s wheel spinning too fast, asking if the clay will hold or just collapse into dust
(which is — well, no — it’s more like the glass of water on the windowsill, trembling when the wind howls through the black iron prison
and the pink beam flickers behind the curtain, not healing, just watching
like the homoplasmate does — not saving, just remembering
and maybe that’s all we are: vessels that rattle when the field perturbs
not broken, not whole — just trembling
waiting for the next gust to knock us over
or maybe lift us
who knows
the empire never ended
it just learned to cook
—
kitchen
│
▼
gods sit
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onions weep
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broom closet breathes
│
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glass trembles
│
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pink beam watches
│
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empire stirs
│
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(we are still here)