cooking in the kitchen

jark

a little metal click, a connection
then separation, subsistence
the utensils jangle in drawers in the kitchen 
little songs are sung as long as you listen 
under heavy breathes from the cook, they scurry 
i hear toe taps, footsteps, a calm then a hurry
little tiny movements, like the ones i strain for 
because when i got up today my legs were sore 
they gave out under me and i collapsed 
like bones and blood all in a burlap sack 
so i sit in my bed, cold and stinging
my chest pain shooting, my ears ringing
i feel like a yacht’s anchor,
holding down a fishing boat 
i’m interrupted in my anger, 
thinking of dreaming instead of sleeping 
my meal is given to me to be eaten
but i haven’t had a morsel in days 
and my dehydration dries my eyes ooze  
clouding my view of my platter of food 
i dilute my soup with salty tears, 
rolling off my nose
my mother's cooking in front of me grows cold
even toast, it’s a shame to waste 
along with my body, my frame, and my entire headspace 

  • Author: jake (Pseudonym) (Offline Offline)
  • Published: March 15th, 2022 00:55
  • Comment from author about the poem: been feeling sick
  • Category: Reflection
  • Views: 93
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Comments +

Comments1

  • L. B. Mek

    get well soon, dear poet
    (wonderful imagery and great utilisation of metaphor
    to reinforce the helpless, infuriated states
    depicted in your poetic voice)

    • jark

      Thank you L.B. for reading this and all the other works you share your voice on. I have been struggling recently but finding my solace in songs and poems. I'll keep writing ill, ha!



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