Oven

 

by Hadara Bar-Nadav

 

 

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.