Still Life, Wusthof in Hand

My husband leans against the counter,

chopping onions, julienning bell peppers,

his back to the door. For him, the kitchen

is the closest thing to religion.

Like a Cubist painting, there is horror

in his precision. His hands so calloused

in this windowless room, the night woven

into knotted ropes. Somewhere there is a light on

that shouldn’t be, a baby crying, a waning

crescent. In his temple, a quiet that steals

moments away, breaks plates into cerulean shades.

I have my own recipe for salvation—

leatherette panties, vise grips, a can of Crisco,

chiffonade of  jimsonweed, but instead he fingers

the sauté, pauses, says it needs something else.

My eyes trace the meniscus of the wine glass.

I imagine the knife in my hands.