Haunted

At first she ignores it.
The broken eggshells
in her food, the tea bags
bursting in a storm of bitter,
night-black leaves,
which circle round her
new-chipped cup,
like clouds to mark
a coming storm,
must show some hidden
strain of clumsiness,
or so she thinks.

And yes, when she first
slips and falls when
walking on dry lino floor,
and when the fridge,
though still plugged in,
defrosts the day she
buys that half price
gourmet cake, she
laughs it off, though
nervously, her chuckles
sharp as kitchen tile,
and brittle too.

But after that... unusual
thing with the knives,
after all the toaster's stunts,
and what she found in
her best pot...she starts
to wonder, starts to throw
stray glances o'er her
shoulder on cold mornings,
when the kettle sings
out tunes she thinks she
might just know, from some
long-canceled cooking show.