the old woman's kitchen

five pots on the four burner stove
and a hot oven,
the metal hum of grinder
stuffed with egg and onion
and liver
and don’t wrinkle your nose
at liver
because you’ve never had this
and never will now.
the old man is there to help.
the dishwasher groans.
the faucet runs.
she is a well-oiled machine,
arthritic knots moving fluidly,
from mixer to spoon
to spatula to mitt.
in an hour she will announce
the chicken is dry
and don’t bother lying
because she has tasted the truth.
(later they remember her perfect
chicken divan
but they have altered her
right out of the recipe
with that much mushroom soup.)
the old man denies it.
the chicken is moist
and he is telling the truth
because he tastes her tears
in there, wet as love.

you could ask her at midnight
why your cake fell
how long to boil the chocolate
how to rescue a slipped stitch.
and she would tell you buy the jarred fish
homemade’s not worth your trouble.

when i conjure her
she is tall as a countertop,
her back to me,
her apron ties yearning to be free.
she climbs the stairs
as if each riser were a mile,
each tread an inch.
the old man is there to help.

© Leslie F. Miller