A Sunday Not So Long Ago

This is unfinished. Unrevised.

In the kitchen, I was there.
Out in the porch, she was there.

The screened aluminum kitchen door
framed her milk laden squared shoulders
outlined by a low back spaghetti-
strapped white shirt. Her short hair was
dark chocolate on her naked nape.

In the kitchen, I drank coffee.
Out in the porch, she drank coffee.

Her arms, which used to remind me of cheese,
were of the color of toasted bread.
She once said, “It’s all because of red.”
I smirked. Her favored soda
was red and she worked for it.

In the kitchen, I boiled eggs.
Out in the porch, she busied.

I heard her broke her silence, “Oh, no! Why”
She clutched the brittle leafless rose twigs
as if they were dead babies of hers.
She stabbed the side of the pail
of invisible roots of roses.
The pail, bleached by fifteen hundreds of suns
and battered by scores of typhoons,
gave up its machine-painted children
who rode merry go round horses
and their smiles of picture perfectness.

In the kitchen, I did rice.
Out in the porch, she busied.
In the kitchen, I fried danggit.
Out in the porch, she worked hurried.

With her callused palms and naked fingers,
which she used when eating dried fishes,
she freed the roots from the dark rich earth.
She snipped rotten ones away-
Moved the roses to a pot made of clay.

Out of the kitchen to the porch
I brought plates: empty and full.
Into the kitchen from the porch
She brought dirt she had to wash off.

Out of the kitchen to the porch
was a pitcher of orange juice.
She poured a glass for me and her.
Out in the porch, we breakfasted.