My Mother's Kitchen

I still haven’t washed the window from which

You watched the birds throw their

seed from their feeder.

And I still can’t forget how

I hollered about how

there was nothing you could show me that I wanted to see.

Because dinner wasn’t the only thing that was cooking.

 I was dipped and coated in answer and insult--

I sizzled and popped with disgust.

It made me question and hate

and spit and devour anything.

My blood was glue that froze against the surface of

my skin and up my jaw and through my hands

where it’d pound and pound.

I never felt done.

Still, you called for me to come and see.

If it wasn’t a quail, it was a hawk or a cat

that was reading one like a book.

But, there was one time I trudged barefoot

to the linoleum floor

where I watched you watch the birds

outside with creased concern on your face.

 

I watched you call my name again.

I watched you start to cry

alone in our kitchen,

while I pretended not to see.