Inventory of a Borrowed Kitchen

The previous tenant left a colander, one wooden spoon scorched dark at the handle, and a jar of cardamom pods, still fragrant, as if she meant to come back for them.

I cook with what she abandoned. The kettle whistles in a key I don't recognize, the drawer sticks where her hand must have learned the exact angle to coax it open.

Through the window above the sink, a magnolia drops its waxy tongues onto the pavement, each one a small white indictment of how little I have unpacked.

Tonight I boil water for nothing in particular. Steam climbs the cabinets like a question no one asked. I open the cardamom, crush a pod between my teeth— green, electric, the taste of someone else's winter.

I am beginning to suspect the apartment was never empty, only waiting for a different body to misplace the salt, to listen for the radiator's small confessions.