Cartography of a Borrowed Kitchen

The landlord's spoons do not know my hand yet. They lie in the drawer like small, sleeping fish, waiting for someone to admit they are temporary.

Morning arrives in the wrong window. Light falls on a countertop I did not choose, finds the kettle, forgives it, begins again the quiet work of making a place out of places.

I have learned the loose tile by the sink, the cupboard that sighs open after midnight, the particular hum the refrigerator makes before it decides to keep going.

Tonight I boil water for no one. The steam lifts, writes its brief sentence on the window above the basin, and I read it, and I read it, and I let it go.

Somewhere a key is being cut for the stranger who comes after me. I am already teaching the rooms how to forget my name.