by Gianna Hayes
A black handle, plastic and curved comfortably enough, familiar
with the feel of hands weary yet eager.
A charred bottom, sooty from the burnt meals spilled
on the stovetop.
A steel spout : outpouring of hot water.
A lever to switch, waiting patiently to quiet the whistling steam.
I see myself in the rounded stainless steel mirror of
my father’s kettle.
