I'm Sorry. The Pan is Fine.

Pork belly bacon on the checkered linoleum

The burner shakily whispers to please stop arguing

but our ears are busy puffing their chests with rightness

The pressure cooker peeks out from behind splattered cupboard doors

nearly jumping when I point to it as if it were the one feeling the pressure

You slam the already dented not-so-nonstick pan back onto the stove top

running your palm through curls that seem to recoil with you when I go to touch your arm

…Why… did you jerk away?

The silent room gestures to the whispering burner

and I watch as you rotate the knob of it, clicking itself briefly before sealing its lips

That muscle in your cheek tenses, and those defeated fingertips

retreat to pockets I can’t reach

You don’t cook, but you try to, I know
I cooked my whole life, but don’t know how to let go

Cass Reiley writes like they’re leaving a note on the fridge—short and meant to be found too late. Their work drifts between the absurd and the intimate, focusing on life’s stray moments with a half-smirk and a chipped coffee cup. They have never successfully kept a houseplant alive, but they keep trying.