KITCHEN TABLE POEM
Bitter smoke clogs the kitchen.
Supper is burning. Knives smile
up at me, newborn botchery.
I am an elephant, a clown.
Today I brought the kids
to the circus then I brought the circus
home with me. I slice
carrots, onions, (ignore the smog)
carry on stabbing potatoes.
Later when everyone's in bed
I'll slice my nouns
in thirds.
Believe, believe
when I am Monday
back to work
after two years home
with the baby
there will be no chicken dinners,
or chocolate chip cookies
gone wrong.
You know, what I’ll miss most
is the whole four o’clock (just
before you get home)
bottle of wine
goodgod gone!
No more napkin poems
while the water boils or
welcome-home-honey
ass pats.
You laugh and say
What, no more domestic angel?
I pull on my oven mitt
and answer you back:
Domestic angel? Fuck that.
*This poem was published in the spring edition of "The Wife of Bath".
2 comments:
oh my...first my gratitude for visiting my blog and your kind comment. Second, yes! Yes! to your words. This is honesty at its best, no frills, no games or word tricks, just beauty kind wrath. I am now a regular here.
Thank you. I very much enjoyed your work & will be reading you regularly as well. I'm new to this blogging deal and have already found some truly vibrant,no-frills poets. What a gift!
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