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Grace Haak Oct 5
cinnamon sugar
your hands mash the crumble cake
warmth fills the kitchen
Alyssa Gaul Oct 3
I hug my mother most in the kitchen.
She reaches up to wrap her arms
around me, and I lay my head
on her shoulder. We breathe
together, relax into one another.
The oak wood under our feet creaks
with each shift of weight. The kitchen is

warm like her. Though that dead plant sits
in the window, we are full of life.
My mother’s fake green grapes and strands of
ivy weave above our heads;
our own personal jungle.
The red-brown cabinets and
bright yellow lights
shine down around us as we sway,
rubbing each others’ backs with a soft hum.

We fit together: mother, daughter.
Since childhood I have not been afraid
to run to her soft speckled skin and be held
by her, even when I was tall
enough to do the holding myself.
We have the same nose,
same smile,
same droop to our right eye.
Same tendency to accidents
like knife cuts
or oven burns
or trips over nothing.
Who am I
but a part of her?

My sister pads into the kitchen
on tiptoes— a habit she could never break
since a child. I see her quiet eyes
flicker downward,
see her scoot herself away from
my mother’s arms
see her close into herself
instead. She stares at the dead plant.

If her skin were a costume, she would
tear it off and never wear it again.
Instead of my mother’s nose,
she thinks she sees
my father’s stubble.
Not my mother’s dimpled smile
reflected back, but my
father’s Adam’s apple.
When we tell her she is
beautiful, she fiddles with her men-sized shoes.
We cannot convince her to
touch us when she is afraid to touch

We fit together: mother, daughter, daughter.
We sit at the island counter, playing
MarioKart on the kitchen TV,
talking about nothing really,
but to my sister it is
Our mother laughs like bells.
Who are we
but a part of her?
Donna Sep 27
Flowers in a vase
Pretty raindrops on window
Tea towel draped on sink
Three parts of water and oil

And one part of yellow grits

Salt and twenty minutes on the stove.

You don't have grits, throw in rice.

You don't have cornedbeef, throw in hamburguer

Or merguez mutton sausages. Or mix them both !

The secret ingredient of Scheharazade's Island Kitchen's Fire Engine is love.

She harbours in her smile

That grin of the kind of instant wild grits

Boiling for immediate bubbling,

Waters exploding from the ***,

Swelling, flowing, bursting,

Simmering until the point of bliss is reached.

And from an imperceptible move in her nostrils

You can guess the bulls in her cornedbeef mew the thyme of Heaven.

Her love is the kind of consistant batter

Blessed with okra, pumpkin and goat pepper.
Cyan Aug 7
Make the cockroach maracas
From the shells of other vermin
For him to rattle and ward off those
Who’d **** upon my kitchen

L Barbera Jul 10
Cooking in silence
on the stove-top
of my tiny kitchen.
Mixing broccoli and leeks.

I can feel the heat
from her eyes
swollen with rage.
Ocularly assailing

My words have drowned
in an ocean of wine
and childhood trauma.

Her heart lost in dissension
Cockroach,  Cockroach , what are you doing in my soup,
In the kitchen I was playing hoop la hoop,
And I fell in you soup mister,
It's hot and I am getting blisters,
Scoop me with your spoon,
Before I swoon.
Please don't shout or scream,
I will be thrown out of the kitchen of my dream,
Filthy and messy,
With rotten fish, slimy and smelly,
Red meat in blood,
And fungi on sauces and salads with mould,
Never scrubbed,the kitchen,
For thousands of us it's heaven.
Be a pal,
Go away with your gal,
At least I did you a favour,
Not eating in this yucky place forever.
Anastasiia May 21
A kitchen was an extraordinary
place for writing. Combined with Earl Grey
it practically wrote for you; I observed the ways
in which waves curled up and moved
towards the seagrass and back.

White foam raced to the shore
almost chasing something but
never quite reaching; slamming the rocks
on its path, smoothing out sands.
Then fade away.

I took a sip and chose a wave
to root for in this contest.
My eyes followed; observed it getting larger,
whiter, faster but all in vain. Sooner or later
it would disappear and become one
with all the others.

Grandfather’s clock had signaled dinner, as I
finished my third mug and looked at you.
Henry rubbed his ears against my foot
and jumped on the chair beside,
joining me in my daily hour of
wave surveillance.
You were like breadcrumbs
left unpurposely by my digestion during breakfast

You stayed on the kitchen table 'til noon,
'til Mama swiped away the remaining crumbs,
I have lunch
with another dish--a different meal.

Something else, but not
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