Mimi’s Kitchen
May 12th, 2007 at 1:31 pm (Poetry)
She still has his ashes
from 1963, in the blue cake
tin beside the pickled pigs-feet.
It has been that way
for years, the corners of her
kitchen caked with sealed memories—
Hungarian goulash, hearts of palm
all unopened and rotting
in the glory of 1943.
She knows her antique red
tomatoes remain suspended
in the milky stewed webs
Of handblown Mason jars. And
on the top shelf, to the far left
beside the jar of pickled pigs-feet,
She will not forget the one container,
whose contents cannot be seen
among the others—
The one the family ignores, while
the round oak table
guards the collection.
Once a week her daughter-
in-law visits and places
one waxy magnolia
In the center of the oak—
its puckered blossom
a cream linen kiss
that will darken in days.
—Stacy F Wray
1991