In the kitchen she fries

bacon, eggs, and her mind.

Scrambled and sunny-side down.

Fat spits in her eyes,

Sweat drops, temperate rises,

And she wishes drops in the pan were cyanide.

The kettle whistles high,

Pressure builds, they sit behind,

Scratching on papers, impatient but

Never helping.

Whistle away your song,

This songbirds long gone,

Monotony will leave you despairing.

Four boys at the table,

Father, sons, all grown males,

Her youngest daughter’s frail hands scald in dishwater.

They say women belong in the kitchen.

That’s where they cook and do knitting,

And gossip the day away with friends.

But when you’re out working,

We women aren’t shirking,

We get out our battle maps and plans.

In the kitchen we free ourselves of your chains.

In the kitchen is where revolution was made.