Mark Owen Martin
Feast of the Absent
By Elizabeth Stelling
If I were a counter of memory in the room of preparation housed for returning in the event of solitude a favorite place to reside would it possess items from someone everyone I loved of the past could I make a meal enjoy each dish favorites remember how each person impressed me over the years use it as a lesson my tool to prepare each recipe what would my children others see say if flour were thrown about messages written on the rolling pin laying not too far from my spectacles spying pie crusts tomatoes growing red to redder from the walls out of the tile as their vines embrace protect the room while buttermilk sits out all night making the sourness thick like smiles salt overwhelms at times when it flies over the shoulder welcomes each person at the door coffee cans stacked high fall fell to the floor spreading brown dirt capturing foot prints running trapping to dominate the day over shadowing smells as cabinets lay open ghosts whisper through the silence singing with the gas flames dancing across the room as green beans and corn sit in a pot sputtering with bacon in the skillet on the other burner popping fat into the sugar sweeter than pie cake love filling every available kitchen space the air left blending playfully with squirting lemons oranges sweet-sour melting oozing into every crack thoughts of all I will care be there for on my passionate ageless speckled sticky messy display hands extended
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