The Kitchen

When I wrote this poem some years ago, I thought it was a bit boring. Such plain subjects: a kitchen, baking, a woman. Now, reading it again, I love it. Plain or no, simple things are beautiful. Reading it, I remember my mom. She is the subject of this poem. And I remember the grateful, trusting emotion I felt living in my parents’ home and realize how rare and precious that was.

***

The kitchen is silent, graceful

     with uneasy cat’s grace

of sunlight on yellow carnations

     gilded like miniature suns.

Stray sounds waft around—

     burr-whirr of mixer—tick-tock of clock—

firm tread of feet calloused in flip flops.

     Their flop-flok rattles the stove.

A woman with soft stribbled hair

     works contented; steps over an egg

that has spilled from its shell; her

     blue dress spattered with water.

Her arms are sun-browned and spotted

     like full-ripened apples, her

forehead creased gently with wilt lines.

     Her face opens wide in a smile.

Thighs cool against smooth oak chair—

     sun rays stream through the window—

my skin reaches for the warmth.

     Salty sweetness explodes on my tongue and

drifts to my nose. Smooth hard chocolate chips, 

     peanut butter, oatmeal, vanilla—

the oven poofs a gassy burst—the

     kitchen curls, waiting, along the wall.