Homemakers

Is it the end of love,

when a look

is a chain of events stopping at two?

When the outline

of your face

scurries away

under the stove.

When your name is just a word tasting like bread.

Is it the end of us,

when a kiss is

a grocery list?

And how it was,

your day again.

Good morning.

Good night.

Is it a home,

if the kitchen

is clean?

Because here I am

using my elbow grease,

rising in celsius,

making us whole.

Is that my favorite?

It's not the end

until we say so.