A poetic retrospective of my Ormond Road house country Kitchen
The cook’s companion,
Who is that?
Do they sit around and give orders, while the porcelain birds on the shelve sing;
Do they finger through the bible-like pages, chubby fingers, oiled and sticky with time,
Are they invisible to the eye, but not to the sensation of imagination,
Are they free?
Can they transcend the recipe, mix it up, and let the music inspire them -
‘What did you say? Sorry I didn’t hear that’
The angel in the painting never moves, the angel tells me -
‘Communion will save your soul’
I don’t believe her; she doesn’t have chubby fingers -
Although she is oily from years of leaning against the wall, above the gas stove top,
That gives her some credit, because she is loyal, and persistent,
I think I like that about her;
They shouldn’t tell me what to do; it won’t serve that measurement,
In that glass, see-through it, can you?
The black cats dance on the mobile, there are four of them, that’s a unit,
Lucky for some, but I want to ask them if it gets tiresome, staying in that same place.
I might get some chopsticks out of the red vase, and put them in my hair, layer it on top of my head, draw it up and around, use the chopsticks to keep it all in place, crisscrossed, over each other, what a treat;
The angel won’t even notice they are missing.
What a delight to have a companion in my kitchen, to share, raise my spirit, come my black women dance with the black cats, sing with the porcelain birds on the shelve;
They look like they are kissing.