Tigs Huertas

Small, Ritual

Narrow, I walk to the kitchen, undressed
the ninth floorboard speaking for all.
The light though, in sorrow,
seeps through
impotent,
casts shadows too faint to impress.
Grasping the metal (the side with the blue)
I fill up the kettle, wait.
Lean lightly toward you, or where you would be,
sink-spray on my belly,
still nude.
I rotate the blind with a somnolent hand,
un-rounding my shoulders
- a stretch -
forgiving my body for what it won't do, 
zebra-like, 
striped where light lands.
According to this clock it's nine twenty nine,
the radio silent as dust.
Boiling with violence
the kettle would stop,
now ageing
it cannot decide.
The first sip of coffee is pure, plenary,
carved into stone, symbolised.
The scent so familiar, 
weight in my hands
that taste triggers memories residual.
The first time my father permitted me try
day-tripping, caught by the snow
- I was perhaps eight,
the cold softened him -
he caved for us then, as did I.
I was, in that moment sagacious, full grown
to share part of his world for once.
Now bare, in the kitchen, 
the soft of my hips,
They feel like the adult I don't.



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