In my Mother’s Kitchen

Speckled on the ground
like drops of blood
brown sugar, sweet and sticky,
Mother’s making cookies.
I liked to make paper dolls
from Comsopoltion.
Cutting out magazine images, pasting them together, as
she lapped up spilt milk and graham crackers.
“Jesus is coming to tea and
he will come to save our immortal soul with a sticker”.
She smiles, her teeth like rock candy, and I continue to
build a family from paper.

Mother wears diamond and pearl earrings.
Floral patterned aprons and socks on her feet.
In a blue bowl she scoops out chocolate frosting,
“take my hand and I will lead you to the secret garden,”
with gooey fingers she played, “Ode to Raggedy Anne”.
Witchy woman whirling about
all she could think of was sweet, bad for her teeth, sweet.
The kitchen was dark and cool, completely void of cookies.

Cut, cut, out the ladies and the men
as mother danced in the kitchen.
White marbles in a black bowl
rain pounding on roof tops.
the room smelt of brownies.
Mother’s crying on the floor.