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{the dictionary hidden in the kitchen} kasandra larsen Her open mouth, denuded of lipstick that morning, sat next to the toaster which spit out poems, their ink still smoking. Last night, leaning into the refrigerator, the vegetable crisper whispered aphorisms, hidden underneath a bag of lemons just starting to mold. She considered calling emergency services, grabbed her husband's ear instead, saved it in her pocket for later while the butcher knives in their wooden holder glared, insinuating dangerous titles. The overhead bulb flickered, hitched in a strangled laugh and burned out, leaving her between the outline of her body in a coffee-stained robe and the sigh of the dripping sink, porcelain plates sliding detergent over each other in giggles and squeaks. Thunder rumbled, shaking formerly silent windows who'd assumed they would have nothing to add. By the back door, she slipped on the old rug that raised a frayed end, said Say it ain't so; but all she heard at first was No in her head, over and over, trapped on the floor, the way she'd heard it pronounced behind a mask by a man in an electric chair on television just before they pulled the switch. This was a Thursday in May, a perfect specimen of spring bringing accidental death of fledglings who fell from the nest, retrieved by the cat who padded in, dropping a ball of feathers near her. A gift for me, she said. I didn't say that, he replied, and the image of that blackening man, smoke curling from his head, spoke: Life's just a toy you can crush underfoot, sweep under the rug. Thunder threatened again; the kitchen grew dark as the phone began to ring. She crawled to it and picked it up. A little girl said Before the pain gets too bad, I'll come over. You can teach me to sing. |
