One Year Later
Aya Burton

Even after forgetting their names
she can peel a plum with a paring knife
and sit on the little circle rug,
tracing its checkered pattern.

Or slide the door of the freezer open
and close it again and again;
tilt her ear toward the hum of the fridge
as it draws its heavy breaths.

Listening is the purest thing she knows.
Whistle of the kettle, scraping of stools,
slippers tapping to radio tunes
as she stands before the sink –

names, she doesn’t need. A spoon is the sound
of a silver key striking the tiled ground.
The cracking of ice is the break of a bone,
the faucet, a drawn-out storm.