The kitchen has this way
‘Of the past’, a ghost
stirring up
history, memory
too deep to coddle
as if an old friend
or the old woman
you left behind
continuously stirs the pot
and the old man who
pokes and prods
the bones at the
bottom of the
bowl, scowls
a call of curses
and mockery
in jest of the meal.
In the kitchen
my heart warms
‘til fire sparks memory
intimate fragile
memory, often felt
in this space
yet I struggle with
the depths of my
need to tell,
tell it all to you,
to stir the pot
once again.
They say one should
take care in how
much truth you tell,
how you reveal
your feelings to
someone.
They say,
it should not violently
buck in on a bull’s back,
animalistically,
slamming up against
the precious and
the delicate.
Instead, one should
saunter in as
precariously
and precise as
the billy goat,
nibbling around
the edges while
clinging to a cliff
with an off chance,
at least caution of,
awkwardly tumbling
into the ravine below.
I don’t really know.
But, as I sit
in the hearth
of this home
no matter it’s
size, shape or
dated color,
I struggle
with the memories
that linger
in the air of
every kitchen
I owned.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
#Poetry #Longverse #Freeverse #Memories
