Why is it always the cold, tiled floor
that cradles my back and collects my tears?
Something about the comfort of yeast
and spices, tomato sauce sputtering on the stove,
Something about the oven’s heat and whirring
turning the kitchen into a womb.
Something about the glow of the bulb above the stove
—an ever present sun,
even after dark.
How many times I’ve found solace in the sifting of flour
in a mixing bowl, the tossing of vegetables in oil,
the simplicity of butter scraped across toast and sprinkled
with cinnamon and sugar, then broiled
until everything hard and bitter turns soft and sweet.
Prompt from @amykaypoetry – Write a poem that takes place in a kitchen