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The Kitchen Sink I stand here by the backdoor Washing dishes left from lunch At my grandparents‘ kitchen sink, Ajax white, bleached hand clean. An old ceramic sink deep enough to drown aluminum pots and non stick pans.

My mother grew up here: among harsh words and cast iron, a flawless wooden table beneath layers of plastic cover Alzheimer‘s, they say, could be a product of our environment of lead, of aluminum, of non stick perfection I look around the sink for clues: My grandmother thinks it‘s the meat, I think it‘s in the powerlines; My grandfather thinks nothing now. My grandmother used to paint the kitchen lead white every summer. They were always sparse; free of the clutter of children. I keep to washing the dishes, Standing over this old sink, deep enough to drown babies, white enough to go blank.


SPIRACLE JOURNAL Volume I Issue No. 1  

Re. In. Vent.

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