Flat

by Laura S. Marshall

Anshu A/Unsplash

My measuring cups are out of tune again. I bring them back to the tuner, two towns away. How strange that this keeps happening, she agrees. She says, Sometimes moisture gets to them. Keep your windows closed. On the way home, they ring and ring against each other, harmony spilling out to fill the car. I sing along; the insects sing along, the kids at the school, the rain.

I set the measuring cups on the counter and close the kitchen windows. I close the red checkered curtains. I drape my apron and switch the oven on. I gather the flour and the sugar and the oil and the milk, the vanilla, the big bowls and the beaters for the mixer. The kitchen is already on my cheeks, the air pre-sweetened and steamy. I grease the pans and sing a little flour into them.

I can tell before I pick up the half-cup that it’s out of tune again. It fidgets. Shifts against its friends. Won’t look directly at me. It clatters flat and hollow against the side of the bowl. The kitchen is too hot now, the air too sweet. I open the curtains. I open the window. I call the tuner two towns over and make an appointment for Tuesday.

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Laura S. Marshall (she/they) is a poet, educator, and former linguist who lives outside Albany, NY. Their work appears in South Dakota Review, Bennington Review, juked, Okay Donkey, Lunch Ticket, and elsewhere. She received her MFA in poetry from UMass Amherst, and has served as a special features editor for jubilat.