Poetry: War Torn Kitchen

The kitchens of my youth are dying.
Their pungent memories opposed
by an innocent army of raw kale leaves
and fresh herbs, a battle long waiting to ensue.
And in the middle, some former
innocence of mine at a kitchen table,
waiting for a steaming bowl of cream of wheat
a little butter and extra brown sugar,
the likes of which only mama understood.
My childhood belly swells with her
offerings: tamale pie, strawberry shortcake,
cheese enchiladas then swiftly, culinary excavation
pubescent angst devoid of savory remedies, the
fridge overtaken by condiments and distilled liquors
My mother hidden, hijacked by the demands of the bedroom
the labors of the world, withholding the food
leaving a starving child to run for cover,
malnourished and famished for her presence
and that extra spoon of brown sugar.
Now a vegetarian or a vegan or a woman
who sneaks burgers in silence
in the back seat of a rented car and ladles love
onto the plates of others to serve the shame away
I race to save that kitchen, to infiltrate the refuge of
bitter hatred on my tongue and can those memories
of sweet strawberries and whipped cream. It has
become crucial, the last tendrils of my mother’s kitchen
marching through my senses, past the organics
and the cookbooks and extravagant spices
and out into the world, to join those other
war torn kitchens which have been deserted,
AWOL hands bent crooked under the weight of knives,
unused aprons noosed along side the
continual flapping of a kitchen door.