The Potomac - Poetry and Politics
December 2006 - THE POTOMAC

In My Kitchen and Barefoot
   Elizabeth Bruno

Let's make breakfast on Sunday—
a day when my wood floors feel
a bit warmer against my brown-bottomed
feet. I'll wear my white cotton slip,

the one you said smelled like the greenest
part of August. I'll show you what a kitchen
is made of, how cupboards are nothing less
than tiny rooms waiting to be opened.

Let us look at the worn parts of my floors,
those tiny islands that show where I've
been. Walk with me; glide your bare feet
from wall to wall—feel how the texture

shifts like winding brush strokes.
You can see where I house the pots—
those sturdy kettles that hold the sauce
and the soup. Notice the dim stains

of brown and red, how not even
the coarsest sponge could wipe them away.
Let me show you how a meal should taste,
how fresh basil can change the fabric

of an egg. I'll show you how to cook
by instinct, no paper full of measurements—
only your hands sticky with bent yolk.
Let's make breakfast on Sunday—

one spoonful at a time.

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