She shuts up her heart

when she cooks.

Under the armor

of hunger she can

ignore distractions:

his voice at the door;

no voice at the door;

the neighborhood talk

when she brushed

her hand on her lips

and brought his kisses

to her mouth again. The thought

of her own company

most days, most nights.

How this is some

kind of hell to live

like her mother,

her mother’s mother

in catalogues of things

feared—just the suggestion

of having once lived.

How she mothers

the blades of bussed

kitchen knives.