Only the Pots Know the Boiling Points of their Broths

In the kitchen we only eat
with oars. In the kitchen there is no noise
except the sound of running water
and a shrill screaming as the kitten
noses the child who then
cuts himself
with a sharp knife.
In the kitchen there are no knives.
Did I say there are no knives?

In the kitchen there is a kitten
and in the kitten is a small child
and in the small child there is
a kitchen that is eating something smaller,
more like a jelly doughnut.

In the kitchen I am not
the small child I am the knife.

In the kitchen there is no kitten.
Instead there is a noise that sounds
more like a muffled cough
but is really me at the stove,
scraping and scraping the edges.