Cast Iron Skillet

Her hands smell like garlic
Crouched next to dirty laundry
She presses her knees into damp carpet
I'm not supposed to hear
so I claw scar tissue,
recite monogamyths
and she, starts sentences with "chiiillllddd.."
then digs into an almost empty fridge
and seasons Mondays leftover's
with basil
to bring out the sweetness
and while her index runs down
the sheet music
I tell her his name


"I know him
he can hear your soliloquy
and has fingers like black keys
that find themselves in faulty
locks, and his
are perfect
long enough to be wrapped
around your stomach
like velvet melodies
but you are not the only one
in his rhythm
and you will never be."
she grabs the salt
throws it over her left shoulder
and says
"Chiiillldd, you are looking under rocks
for your wings."