Line up to worship at the butter dish

Give us greasy palms

And the sacred toast

To see us through the fires of the stove

That summons the morning aromas

To coax the others from their slumber.

Sacrifice us atop the shrine of the cafetière

And wash our bodies with coffee dregs

Lest we pass to the other side

Smelling of weak tea

And looking like a used bag

Steeped too many times.

Ascend us to t...

As tears over took

I felt like I was stuck

My head banging against the wall

Crash

Smack

Into the wall and back into the wall

Until I could feel this

Shocking dreadful pain

That would last forever...

Pre-dawn whispers, a rumpled landscape of sheets

where her warmth should linger.

The house, a cathedral of quiet,

Devoid of the sizzle, and clanking of pans,

that usually heralded the start of their day.

Sunlight, a thief breaching the blinds,

Stretches across the battlefield of the kitchen table.

The scent of perfume lingers on the air,

A folded parchment, a white flag of surrender,

Amidst t...

The kitchen is clean,

Proper and neat.

The kitchen has tiles,

Shiny, petite.

The kitchen holds knives,

Sharp, in a row.

The kitchen looks tidy,

Suspiciously so.

The kitchen smells odd,

A hint of decay.

The kitchen is decorated,

Bones fresh from today.

The kitchen has a past,

Morbidly gory.

The kitchen has secrets,

An untold story.

The kitchen is deadly,

You’d better watch out.

Set foot in...

The butter sizzles

The heat and aroma soar

I savor this feast...

Pots and pans, washing hands,

Water running in the sink.

Plates and cups, the fridge opens up.

Someone pours themselves a drink.

Bacon and eggs, a little dog begs.

We know what he’s been wishin’.

Freshly baked bread, strawberry spread.

Grandma’s cooking in the kitchen....

You open the fridge and not much you will see.

A daunting emptiness of cold.

A half gallon of milk sits alone,

And a container of soup filled with mold.

You search through cabinets with hope.

Wanting no more than a crumb,

But all you find is dust and webs.

The hunger is making you numb.

You search through your pockets,

Praying for coins to fall.

Maybe a small sandwich you can buy,

But no coins, ...

In the kitchen, I craft love in my hands

I simmer storylines of flavors and spices

The character of the food develops in my pots and pans, and always ends on your tastebuds.

The journey of sustenance is one I will always follow with a fire in my eyes

Though I know the ending like I know what follows a breath.

That may be written in stone, but the way that a person lights up when they take thei...

Cooking in the kitchen is fun,

Although sometimes it can be glum.

Different foods can be full of danger,

But it’s worth it for the flavour.

Things like carrots are always a pain to peel,

And the myth that they help you see in the dark isn’t real.

Onions are something you can do anything with every fry,

But they don’t half make you cry.

All kitchens have a work top where you can prepare,

So you...

In the kitchen

At night

A glinting urge

Catches my eye

This strange creature

I’d never noticed

This blackness

Crossing my brain

Was this normality?

First time I’d questioned

An unordinary want

For a drug

A drug that numbs

A drug that takes it away

A cold, simple pain

That blocks hot anger out

I’m hungry

Once more

Aching from deprivation

So drawing my tools

I feed myself

With starvation...