Kitchen table blues
she retires to her kitchen
for the comfort and the warmth
it is her den, her study and her workplace
she reads, she listens to music and she cooks the family meals
there are also ghosts in this kitchen
spirits who visit and sleep between the pages of her books on her desk:
there is Madame Bovary who lingers when she cuts the onions
and permeates her kitchen with the cloying odour –
the inevitability of domesticity
the stinging tears that longs for escape
from provincial life,
the ever encroaching bourgeois-dom.
there is Anna Karenina who infuses the air of romance
and whips up dreams of the realms of passion
as airy as any pavlova,
she has no panache for this just desert,
not the spirit to macerate the forbidden fruit.
there is Sylvia Plath who stirs the creative juices
and stews the existentialist doubts
the restless search –
her genius for self annihilation
a feast yet to be served in her kitchen.