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
next
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
then
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
now
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