Grandmother's Kitchen

The kitchen of your soulful
Doleful afternoons, lives on
In a square inch pocket of my brain.
It talks in light and shadows,
Sighing with turmeric breath,
Indecisive between lunch done right
And parties done best.
You stand there, a shining frame
Caught in her own still dance
Of faith - your heart set on
The freshest vegetables,
Your lips singing the tunes
Of folded lists scribbled to death.
But life is here, in a moment,
Where the kitchen is nowhere,
Not an eye can wrench it out
Of my dizzy head, calculating each fragrance -
That means I'm in your shoes,
That this is my kitchen instead.