K. R. Rose

     Lemon

I boiled tea on the least talkative burner.
Common ivy and blue kettles are good company on disease anniversaries.
Is it possible to overshare with house plants?
If so, I blame the lemon for sitting too idly in the fruit bowl.
I said, “You know, this kettle isn’t mine.”
I said, “I found it under the sink when we moved in.”
I said, “When I moved into my body, cancer moved in too.”
I said, "Last night, it was so hard not to cry in front of my students.”
The lemon continued to idle.
The common ivy released more oxygen.
The kettle screamed.
I reached for the least judgmental mug in the cabinet,
hoping it wouldn’t say anything.

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K. R. Rose is a blind poet and storyteller living in Boston, Massachusetts. She studied fiction and poetry at Emerson College. More of her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Dulcet Literary Magazine, Scapegoat Review, Scavengers Literary Magazine, and others. When she’s not writing, Rose may be collecting rocks from streams across New England.