Oven
I live with an oven.
A heavy weight.
I set the timer, skim
its caked corners,
wobble near faint
when considering a square.
Entry. Exit. Door
to nowhere.
Memory framed
by double-paned glass
so I can see the stream
of blue flames caving
the roof of my mouth.
The hiss of history
ablates my face, blisters
my tongue and my name,
numbers me among millions.
I crackle as a leaf.
An entire epoch turned
its face, then washed
its hands for dinner
on an ordinary day.
Who set the table
in silver and lace.
Who opened
the door then closed it.