When I walk into my mother’s house
I see a pot on the stove high flame
charring the sides
she thinks she’s boiling
water but the water has evaporated
like a ghost fleeing the scene
leaving the bottom scalded, a blackness
that cannot be reversed.
It was only a matter of months. You see,
she was very careful in the kitchen
taught me the same:
check the pilot lights, smell for gas
unclutter the space where you cook
simple things like this she taught me
so last week when I visited when I saw
the blue flame hugging the sides of that old pot
sitting too close to the Kleenex I’d hand her
sobbing as she watched TV
so much violence, was it always like this,
sit down, darling, let’s eat, everybody loves dinner
but there was no food, nothing there to cook
I hadn’t brought a thing, what was I thinking
but we smiled, held hands, I changed the channel
she told me she felt full and was ready for bed.