Stove Lessons

The jar hit the floor and the red was too bright,

like a punch to the gut of the kitchen’s pale tiles.

I’ve been living on sugar and crusts for a fortnight,

counting the hunger in long, hollow miles.

I wiped up the glass with a rag and a curse,

then turned to the range with a heavy, slow hand.

Eating like this only makes the head worse,

a diet of air that I can't quite command.

Click, click, and the third time the burner went blue,

a crown of small flames in the dim, evening light.

I’m chopping the onions for nobody new,

just feeding the person I’m stuck with tonight.