At 23:40 Samantha rolls twenty loud
milligrams on her tongue, feels them melt
as they enter her throat, switches the tv on,
waits for the witching hour.
As the clock strikes
she becomes a maverick, the doyenne of listeners.
Her kitchen whispers:
An avocado moans,
begs to be mashed,
lashed with cider vinegar,
spread on soda bread.
The corn remembers
being threshed from its stalk,
calls for the crispness of cucumber,
tang of cold quark.
A downy kiwi screams
to stroke her palm, be crushed
against cool stone, skin carved to a rose.
Slimy black seeds line the knife she licks.
She clutches fresh figs.
grunt for dates,
A cauliflower demands
to be let out
of the fridge,
covered in cream cheese.
Spaghetti longs to be spooled,
zoomed like a plane
Mamma where are you?
In a white frenzy she zones, zeroes in, listens
to the kitchen whine, rumble, shriek.
When the spell loses its strength she comes to her night’s work,
her empty fridge, her empty hands.