Mother, Kitchen

Where the immemorial and the instant meet, opening and distance appear.

Through the opening: a door, crack of light.

Behind the door, a kitchen.

Where the knife rises and falls, clouds gather, disperse.

A lightspeed joining of life and death, cut

in two: halves of a sun, of slowness.

Halves of a turnip.

A mother in the kitchen, a lifetime of cuts.

A cabbage cut into mountains and rivers,

a fish, cut along its leaping curves,

laid on the table

still yearning for the pond.

Summer’s tofu

cut into premonitions of snow.

A potato listens to the onion-counterpoint

of the knife, dropping petals at its strokes:

self and thing, halves of nothing

at the center of time.

Where gone and here meet, the knife rises, falls.

But this mother is not holding a knife.

What she has been given is not a knife

but a few fallen leaves.

The fish leaps over the blade from the sea

to the stars. The table is in the sky now,

the market has been crammed into the refrigerator,

and she cannot open cold time.