Sestina

There is a house with a shiny black door.
Behind it, a woman cooks pasta
and seasons it with just enough salt.
Beside it lies a soggy wet pair of shoes
a boy left out in the afternoon rain.
Light streams from the windows and shines like the sun.

The steam from the stove feels warm like the sun.
"Hello Darling", says a voice from the door.
Beads of sweat cover the pot like tiny drops of rain.
"Hello Dear, I hope you're hungry for some pasta.
Come sit down and kick off your shoes."
As he moved toward the table he knocked over the salt.

"How clumsy of me"; he scooped up the salt.
He swept up the mess and threw it at the sun.
The tiny white grains clung to his black shoes
like tiny white snowflakes that that cling to the black door.
His wife hums to herself as she doles out the pasta
and her smile reassures him like flowers reassure rain.

Inside her heart tears fall like rain
as she remembers a boy, the salt
of her earth. A boy who twirled his pasta
around his fork, who played outside in the sun
while she watched form the door,
and who didn't want help tying his shoes.

"I just vacuumed Baby, take off your shoes
outside". Now they sit, drenched in rain,
right where he left them, by the black door.
They preserve his memory, like salt
preserves meat stored away from the sun.
"Can I have some more pasta,

Mommy?" He will never ask for more pasta
again. He will never again leave his shoes
by the door. He won't play in the sun
or splash through puddles of rain.
Now, his memory stings, like a wound laced with salt.
All of which is also hidden, behind that black door.

Without the sun, there is always extra pasta.
The shiny black door matches the man's shoes,
and although it keeps the rain out, it keeps in all the salt.