Edible Verse-In the Kitchen

By Kim Lane

One mother lights a candle and reconnects with the stranger
that is her kitchen.

Days
of obedient service,
of drawers and cabinets that open and close
open and close
open and close,
of steam rising from foam-draped dishes,
of drips, splatters and mmmms,
of gathered plates, forks and spoons that
support, lift and deliver
edible love,
have melted
into the spot on the floor that grips a sock,
into the fingertip shadows that cluster around an active cupboard,
into the thick crumbs that roll under a turning stove knob,
into the ghost-thread of coffee that trickles down the cabinet door
and frames a tile on the countertop,
So mama lights her candle,
and moves softly and deftly through the room
like a lover,
gently rubbing the length of the cabinets
the lip of each counter
the belly of each drawer,
returning every part of the room to purity
order
preparedness,
ready to greet the nomadic, chaotic appetites
lurking beyond the door