where can I be when I am not in your kitchen?
where can I be when I am not in your kitchen?
who can I be when you are not tenderly feeding me roasts and herbs?
if you are not spooning the last of the sauce to my plate
more, more
have as much as you like
am I ever here? can I be real?
what is my name if it’s not spoken at your door
while the warm air takes the bite from my cheeks?
what should I be called?
and why are my hands so fine and nimble
if not to pour the wine into your glass
or wash the dishes in your sink?
I wear this scarf, just so I might drape it on the hook with your coat
I work, just so I might bring you stories
to laugh over while we share the salt
the map I keep in my head is your cupboards and drawers
the spices, the towels
the forks and small spoons
where can I sit if not across your table,
olive dish between us?
or soft cheese, or biscuits
or pears; do you want more pears?
I scuff up my boots to leave them at your threshold
I soften my tongue to thank you for the meal
where can I be when I am not in your kitchen?
it is the only place I know how to be good
and warm,
and full