She is sad now
but there is much to do.
In the morning she grinds cinnamon and lemon peel
into a beige silk dust
that renders her tea warm but sharp
and drifts across the countertop,
reminding her that she used less seasoning
when she cooked for her lover.
“I like food to be gentle with me,” he once said.
Then she goes into the bathroom,
where the loofah rolls out of the cabinet.
Never one to ignore a suggestion,
she showers, scrubbing vigorously.
She has rubbed off so much,
that the world draws very near and
she lapses from speech.
Silence presses in.
She might as well have eaten stones.
All the scouring foods she can think of—
celery, onion, garlic, apples, cabbage,
little boats of pasta that can carry anything—
she prepares and eats,
with plenty of rosemary—
that’s for remembrance.
Published in Clackamas Review, Spring-Summer 2001
©Beth Partin 2001. All rights reserved.
