Mother’s Kitchen

As in a womb,her life had been so perfectly woven here.

Rounded high and tidy was the bun she had tied in her hair

A gentle sway of her hips summoned obedience to order

A Midas touch so intense nothing dared look older.
I had been taught of perfection in selection in this very room 

Told my lifestory and characters should be polished up as does the broom

Only the beautiful brides in her stories get the groom

Now I wonder why my Father never saw her bloom.
In the Winter the only warmth was a fire

Trapped underneath steel pots that never showed retire

Neck-deep in oblivion of the absence of a father

Ignorance never bliss,the sorrow in mother was dire.
The Summer brought sunshine and tunes from a lyre

A controlled loneliness took vacancy in Mother and I

Over soup-making tutorials she’d say with a sigh,

“Grow up out of the kitchen till the day that you die”
These words are echoes of the life that she led

A rose-scented cover and tear-stained bed

All of the pieces of herself that she shed

Became the bread out of which I’m made.
The tidiness and trimmings of which I’d see

Were all the things she wished she’d be

Wrecked and trodden on,I do agree

But my Mother made sure I’d be free
Free to find peace

Free to be praised

Free of all the demons

That my Father raised.

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