The following poem by Katy Kim ’18 was published in the summer 2016 issue of Canvas Literary Journal.
“Bitter Words”
Cinnamon dust flecks on a persimmon mortar
the tang of our stone and bone dinner, that rests stout in the alcove —
And all I can hear is the static— by some clock’s syncopated heartbeat,
as my calloused hands constrict the earthenware swell of your pottery class mug.
“No thanks, nothing for now.”
But I am hungry and thirsty for the melodies that rang before in this life kitchen
all the baseline tapclicks on formica, a sizzlesnap of avocado oil on skin and sometimes bone
cocooning me in time with our own symphony here— and Now.
Now you speak with no melody, and your turned back accuses me
and I am still drinking a cold horchata you made—
yesterday. When the Timex I bought for your twenty-third birthday beeps a constant and you turn—
I don’t want to play anymore
with the knives you will wash last, soap still on your elbows —
So I toe a piece of gristle on the carpet to be whistled up into the Electrolux vacuum — later
And say it, “I’m not mad at you anymore.”