The White Kitchen

The White Kitchen

Yes, you are gone
and I believe that bodies rot
when buried in the ground,

though as to what happens
to living creatures
that walk their peripheries

in a distant town
I am helpless to say.
Not dead then, but distant.

On the occult telephone
your voice sounds
as oddly rushed as from the ether,

summoned by a crone.
I can add nothing new
to metaphysical conjecture,

I am no oiled and bound Egyptian,
have no name for what’s been done
here in your absence’s white kitchen.


from Seaway: New and Selected Poems (Salmon Poetry, 2008), © Todd Swift 2008, used by permission of the author

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