The Kitchen

The kitchen has this way

‘Of the past’, a ghost

stirring up

history, memory

too deep to coddle

as if an old friend

or the old woman

you left behind

continuously stirs the pot 

and the old man who 

pokes and prods

the bones at the 

bottom of the 

bowl, scowls

a call of curses

and mockery

in jest of the meal.

In the kitchen

my heart warms

‘til fire sparks memory

intimate fragile

memory, often felt

in this space

yet I struggle with

the depths of my 

need to tell,

tell it all to you,

to stir the pot

once again.

They say one should 

take care in how

much truth you tell,

how you reveal 

your feelings to 

someone.

They say,

it should not violently

buck in on a bull’s back,

animalistically,

slamming up against

the precious and 

the delicate.

Instead, one should

saunter in as

precariously

and precise as 

the billy goat,

nibbling around

the edges while

clinging to a cliff 

with an off chance,

at least caution of, 

awkwardly tumbling

into the ravine below.

I don’t really know.

But, as I sit

in the hearth

of this home 

no matter it’s 

size, shape or 

dated color,

I struggle

with the memories

that linger

in the air of

every kitchen

I owned.

©Jay Mora-Shihadeh

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

#Poetry #Longverse #Freeverse #Memories

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