we all have so many scars
that we have grown roots
now rotting fast
in that favorite place of many a gathering
your kitchen my kitchen those dearest friends’ kitchen
grandma’s kitchen mama’s kitchen dad’s i too can cook-kitchen
each cupboard smelling like their pain med
poorly prescribed for their end
witches’ brew in a cauldron before us
even the back burner’s simmer-dial
scorches the ancestral ladle right off of our hand
the same hand we thought could control our fingers
which in turn would glow to show us whether to stir clockwise
or counter-clockwise
with rigor or not
how many times
for how long
when
why
our embarrassingly short short-term-memory
convinces us to believe fairy-tales all over again
that maybe just maybe
a tiny batch of soul food
would drizzle out of such gooey gunk
enchanting us in to our prenatal sheath
thus gifting us with a little breather
in order that we can tend our scabs
tend to the gashes in our hearts
instead
the immortal spell-thrower
engulfs us
with a flood of burning ashes
spooned right out of the pot of our own churning
and
our bruises
while still in their nth round of incrustation
turn blood red once more
because our systemic veins are wide-open yet once more
© hülya n. yılmaz, 10.0.2016
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