Millicent Borges Accardi
THE FLAT BLACK OF THE CAST IRON
from a line in “Dark Matter” by Carl Marcum
Denies the weight of its body
the handle that heats up
and is hot to the touch when you
least expect it the raw skin sticking
to the heavy cast iron as you
forget and pull and lift and your
sorted flesh is attached to the
pan for a long-distance moment
of realization when ten years go
by, between the oven and the shelf
and the pale rice casserole you are baking
and the astonishment and the pause
and what are we doing here when the
world is stopped and locked inside
itself, and we are trapped and the light
goes on inside the oven and the oven mitts
are folded on the stovetop and you wonder
about love and why the touch of humans
seems necessary (like ice) when you least want
to want it to be, you would rather prefer
the mystery of pain and someone telling
you not to, not to, not to, not to, and then you imagine
the shy slurry of moving and running
water with hands delved deep into the sink of
the moment that stopped between when
you reached in and gripped the heavy
handle as if it were your heart
and tried to let go and couldn’t.