This metamorphosis and transformation is an old friend of mine. Without true darkness we would never know and experience light. I give you a beginning, a dark place, a reference.
(as a note, this blog does not like the original formatting on this piece...but you'll get the drift)
Mother’s Kitchen
Some say
All fights start and end in the bedroom.
But that room is reserved for lovers alone.
Where I come from
The kitchen becomes
The circle squared.
Splintery and dark,
Hostile wooden planks with olive-colored pegs replace
The smooth springy canvas of the ring.
There’s no strong bell to signal
The end of one fiery match
And the beginning of another.
The lady begins barking orders, again.
A stolid iron skillet still
Shudders in fright from
The last round fought.
It remembers every blow.
The dirty amber glow
From the stove hood lamp
Shines only on weary faces:
Tired and drawn,
her whitewashed countenance falls
into nicotine-stained hands.
Those frozen blue eyes have taken in too much today.
Moms’ coffee
Cold
with a slimy-stiff film of cream
my only companion now.
The last go in the ring took everything away.
A fly,
frozen to the ceiling considers
her strangely electric body
strewn across the floor and
the hulk of man-speed
With furious peg-eyes
Staring back.
Her face becomes one
With the clammy planks below her.
A dog whines in the distance.
If only the ranks of
Silly blue flowers
Marching across the greasy walls could
Muster the
Strength to pull her up.
Not this time.
Not next time.
Not ever.
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