Cleaning the Oven

I am looming over the oven, pressing my
soft belly into the hot metal, the dish towels all
falling to the floor and the burnt decay of every meal
we've ever made together rising from the rust
and all I need to do is get some baking soda,
run a brush over the bottom-filth,
let it rest, turn the dial to self-clean and
wait.

I cannot bring myself to hover
against the foggy glass, the kitchen
heating up with smells and sizzled-sighs
of caked on lasagnas, ruined cookie deaths,
casseroles I'd never thought I'd make.

If I clean the oven, then I am giving in
to another person's life, where commonplace is
you coming home from work to walk the dogs and
me preparing another perfectly portioned meal
we'll stow away for leftovers before turning in
to watch TV and go to bed.

We'll leave the Le Creuset soaking in the double-sink,
the dishwasher spit-shining plates and glass,
the Cabernet has stained the pristine counter top
and my voice, unrecognizable, reminding you to
mind your mess.

I cannot clean the oven.
If the oven doesn't fill the house with smoke
each time we turn it on then I'm still not this person,
who does such things so mindlessly. I am a complex,
reluctant housewife in shredded combat boots
and jeans, I am that secret intrigue
of a time before, I am not all blissed out on
my disinfectant Lysol wipes,
I am still made of something more than
small-talk on a Tuesday night.
I am the girl you once fucked against the oven.

And now I'm supposed to go ahead and make it clean?

11/07/2017

Posted on 11/07/2017
Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer