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.