Apron.

Afterimage.

The kettle
cooling on the stove.

The sink inventories itself again:
stacked plates,
oregano bruised
into the hinge of my palm.

The kitchen smells of singed filo,
lemon rind,
wet stone.

Blue enamel.
Salt brighter than marble.

Seeds reddening  
the drain.

Evening enters.

Smoke. Ecstasy. Columns collapsing.

An entire city
agreeing to look away.

The sky
keeps
its own counsel.

The sea keeps grinding.

The cypress whitens with moths,
its leaves churning
like oars beneath black water.

Now everyone requests
smaller mercies from me.

Lavender in the linens.

Brushing ash
from the windowsill.

Drawing the tablecloth
over the scorch mark.

Even catastrophe arrives hungry.

The kettle keens again.

The house darkens toward bronze:
door latch,
olive oil,
the backs of spoons,

carrying the colour
of already burning.

Scent of dishwater and laurel,
the violet husks
of garlic
whispering against the floorboards.

The spent hearts
of the pomegranate.

Cicadas rasp against the shutters.
A sparrow settles in the fig tree.
I have already seen the hawk.

I fold towels.

Bodies wrapped in flags
find me.

First,
someone opened a gate.

The city burned later.

What remains:
the kettle's breath,  
late gold against tile—

beeswax hardening
in shallow dishes.

—Cara Waterfall

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