bread dough

I was raised in a series of kitchens

the first small

where the wall color would change

on whim and boredom

with a screen door pushed through

by a bird dog’s head

who would whine for leavings

at the babies table

the second

within tang of the paper mill

and fragrant of biscuits

vinegar beans and ham

where coffee was strong but mellowed by cream

and heaping spoonfuls of sugar

the third

tall ceilinged and linoleumed

holding sweating green glass jars filled with crescent melon moons

with a pantry bearing big reds

and red ants

that poured from the cereal box

fourth a kitchen

of koolaid and party fare

where the liquor cabinet was well stocked

and well used

and the floor, cork and scuffed

hard by mary janes and chasing dogs


open and old

where a chicken would lay

her egg on the window sill

and peck her greeting each morning

and the floored rolled down hill


a kitchen made of sticks

gathered from a pack rats horde

painted hunter green

with windows where the lame doe

would peer nightly

big eyed


a kitchen of wandering light

and walls of pear and faded aquamarine

where at last

it is the last

to see dough rise in the morning

with the sun

and joy with the moon rise

at night

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