Inventory of a Borrowed Kitchen

The previous tenant left a colander shaped like the moon's bad side, and three forks bent toward the same hunger. I rinse them anyway. The faucet coughs the apology of old plumbing.

Tonight the rice comes out wrong again— gummy as a child's first letter home. I eat it standing, watching a fly negotiate the window screen, its small persistence a kind of prayer.

Above the stove, a stranger's grease map charts the meals I'll never cook. I add my own coordinates: garlic, the steam of a Tuesday, the brief gold of butter learning to be sound.

The fridge hums in a key I am beginning to recognize. Outside, somebody's dog gives up on the moon. I set the kettle down and listen to the room remember me.