SAPPHO IN THE KITCHEN

by Kallima Hamilton

Repetition and toil, slaves enough
but the woman in me grows fond of dishes
and something central

sends me back into baking and brooms
in this room lit with sun and cinnamon.

A blue fire burns at the core of me,
each poem of love buffed over sudsy water.
Too often I dream of your ankles.

The soufflé sinks. Still, I go on
with my island view dotted by dolphins.

The universe curves like a green slice of melon.
We observe our need to nest

and nourish. Let me rub sunflower oil
on your belly, give you tonic juiced with lime.

All I can do is recite the syllables of your name,
become entangled in the blonde glass of your wild hair.

This wood table anchors me with roses and grape hyacinth,
these words become the fresh bread of our long afternoons.

Soon, sundown will turn in its coppery shadows
and my ache, like a thing possessed, will wander for its form
until you return with apricots, sweet plums.