In the Kitchen Aisle

One stainless steel kitchen knife

and it goes -- sharp side down --

into the crate with the rest of the apartment's dirty silverware.

"Silver," the box  -- now broken down --

in the closet read, but she thought it more of a "grey."

"It's all the same," he had shrugged,

with dry lips pursing to one side

and blue eyes -- rolling down --

turning his head away.

"but it's not," came the protest, in

a volume -- falling down --

that did not turn the head back,

nor the sharp side of the knife up,

nor the shade of the utensils that would lie

              by a smashed bowl against a wall

              to a color more like what the box

              had promised her in that day in July,

"it's not."

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