My Kitchen This Morning

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Bout kitchens and things. Domestic poetry at its most basic.

Submitted: July 18, 2014

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 18, 2014



The kettle is whistling in the cool white darkness,

spitting rotting water onto the flame. I rise like

Lazarus in a haze and stumble across creaky

boards. I find it and shut off the stove.

The kitchen is cold and the floor under my

socks is slick. I stand there, remembering—what?


The sick sweetness passes through my gut, lighting

my scars and filling my mouth with pus. I choke on

remembrance like it was lust—lust for what dead

thing I’ve fondled? Love for what love has dwindled?

Love for a father whose bastard I was? Love for a

Grandmother? That’s no love.

My kitchen this morning is still and peaceful, no

meals meant for the millions, no leering in-laws,

aunts or uncles, just me. Me and the solitude of

spoons, and knives smiling out, the sunface gleam

on the black-brown granite and the buzz the

icemaker makes out of habit.

This. These moments I savor, when the ratting

head is silent with splendor. When the thoughts

fall away and I abandon reason, just to breathe

and decide upon my season.

© Copyright 2020 Stevi Anthony . All rights reserved.

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