Home   Home


by Lauren Singer


In the persistent ache of winter
I have found myself cooking chicken dinners.
There is no warm hearth to tend to,
not anymore. Just me, in the kitchen, socks sliding along
the linoleum, the cat, nudging my ankle with her chin.
It is not the joyful cooking of company, though
I want it to be more poignant than it is. I wear an apron,
for nobody. Listen to Joni Mitchell like so many sad women before me,
and know that
my sad story is so many sad stories
rolled into the collection of ages.
But, it feels good to make something from scratch.
There are no compromises:
skin on, bone in, butter on my hands
filling each crevice with herbs and oil.
You might say, it's a distraction.
You might say, it's something to do.
Later on, I will joke about how the chicken doesn't judge,
to no one in particular, maybe to the chicken itself.
And I'll wish I had someone else to talk to.
I want to be walked in on, wiping grease on the tea towels,
sipping the cooking wine, singing to myself in the
oven-heated hallway, and for whomever it is
who should catch me there

to sigh, and say
"I love you, just like


Posted on 01/08/2020
Copyright © 2020 Lauren Singer

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 01/11/20 at 05:50 AM

A poignant piece, down-to-earth in the kitchen cooking that chicken dealing with being alone. Thanks for this.

Posted by Laura Doom on 01/14/20 at 12:18 AM

The upside: you are a distinctive singer.

Return to the Previous Page

pathetic.org Version 7.3.2 May 2004 Terms and Conditions of Use 0 member(s) and 2 visitor(s) online
All works Copyright © 2020 their respective authors. Page Generated In 0 Second(s)