Time works the kitchen
in his white apron.
Pots and pans of history:
memory’s dirty work.
Just the way you like it; your terrified past scrubbing away on its hands,
the blue you see when daddy drinks,
your red spill over the kitchen tile.
Is it light that does the moving, the taking back?
Rapid melting
in dour return,
the bury of bones.
There is a need to sanitize,
to rub the unsoiled flavors from dishes
and forks and knives and glass
all used for dinners while sitting across
from father.