If the kettle sings, I'm ready,
why does it sound so much like pain.
And with your reflection so steady
in its copper sheen,
why is it such a race to see which boils first,
water or blood.

What does a kettle know
of pain and anger anyhow.
All it has to wonder is
did the voice from the next room
shout, "Make the coffee."

You lift the kettle from the stove,
pour the waning cry
into the cup marked "His."