The kitchen counter is cold, as stone
always is and lunch crumbs left
from preparing a single plate are easily swept
into the sink with my warm palm.
Every meal is made here, rarely savored
but made still, delivered to the tongue
as if to say, you must eat. Most nights,
vodka is poured too, its harsh sting
watered down with soda and lime
over ice. The stove’s nightlight pushes
into the dark to assist the lone moon
doing its best to slide between the blind slats.
Picasso said without great solitude no serious work
is possible. But is there greatness in all forms of solitude?
What of the work we once created while side-by-side?
I search for you in every creation—the gray
veins in white marble, distorted reflections
on stainless steel, the cool leather
of the opposing chair. Processed in reverse,
your absence exposed in negatives,
the light passing through where your form
once shaped the shine from the sun.