lessons in kneading

(for my grandmother)

 

Within the kitchen, summer days unwind

My grandma hovering above the heat

Her elbows pointed and submerged in folds

Of golden dough;

 

She plucked each apple (bitter burgundy)

Redeems each bruise with gentle paring blade

And weighs the globes—the blossum’s essence—whole

Alive in palm.

 

Skins plop to linoleum in spiral burst,

Like shiny pinwheels whistling among themselves

And leaving naked surface, dewy white

And decadent.

 

Her fingers, ageless beneath the dainty film

Of flour-dust gloves, the same that taught

My own to knead (compress then push then fold)

A satin rhyme;

 

The dough evolves to gentler form, and warms

With touch; we slice the season in quarters, lulled

By bushels, apples, drowsy oven glow

Divinely soft,

 

And teaspoons of cinnamon reconcile the distance

Between her youth and my own.

@3 months ago with 2 notes
#cooking #grandmother #love #poetry