Open Air

Take the stones from the drawer
rub your coarse skin soft

Let your head hang down
and shake your long hair out

Slide your hands back and forth
so kitchen oil becomes gloves

Moisture locked in, turning forty
to twenty until the gray opens wide

Calming my mind until its
whispers of condescension
dishearten against the words
from the mouth of good morning

Steaming tempeh and buck wheat
Miso soup that awakens me

So you will drive or will I
Until empty boxes filled

My move away through weeks
Once dressed then not I find

Your coarse black hair in bed folds
and sweep skin cells in piles to discard.