Sometimes I wish I were an oven

If I were an oven,
I could not wake for work
I could not wake at all
I would not sleep.

If I were an oven,
I would not pray to God
I would not pray at all,
Nor know what God is,
Nor how tragic that might be.

If I were an oven,
You could not be angry with me ever,
Nor make puddles of my hurt,
Now know that I existed in any other form,
But only that I now exist,
And that I am useful,

And that fact would not make me sad,
Because I would know no facts.

If I were an oven,
I would cook cake and Thanksgiving turkey,
And you would notice my heat
Just as you notice the hum of the refrigerator,
The smell of my meatloaf,
And the glow of the stove as you make breakfast.

If I were an oven,
I could not love you as a person does,
Nor love you at all,
And you could not hurt me as you have before,
Nor hurt me at all,
Though you might break me.

If I were an oven,
I would belong to you completely,
And you would appreciate me as something that you need,
And nothing more,
And you might feel privileged to have me,
Or at least, more than you have.

Sometimes I wish I were an oven,
Because ovens know nothing more than food,
And they do not bother with deadlines,
Or arriving to work on time,
Or how much they are loved.

But mostly I just wish I were an oven
So that you would pay attention to what you put into me
And leave lingering for hours,
And so that you would concern yourself with me when I was broken,

So that I might be made new again.