A Range Unobserved
Christopher Moya
My mother has a myriad of kitchenware
Whose motley motifs seem to match
The bantams' cavalcade on laquerware.
Their scarlet dewlaps never quiver;
She collects them in wicopy, earthenware, balsam fir.
All is mosaic-berry-stenciled, rosette-embossed-
The gradation of canisters; oven-mits on daisy-hooks;
Racks of nutmeg, onion salt, vanillin.
And reaching for the colander, lost in a hardy sweat,
Cleaving artichoke or neutering snow peas,
She can mince and parley unlike anyone else I know.
And though the knives and forks are never skew,
Though every dish turned right
And collop smoked on time, tubers red-hot,
And every sprig or slice of lime
Emblem of the prefecture
Though all seem to turn out right-
The toil of the spatula, spayed ovum and canola...
She can emcee with rare maniacal verve;
Serve, bravissimo, a breakneck hors d'oeurve;
And dash away to check the range,
Loath to spy the gridiron's cargo.
She can genuflect at every clock
And watch the timer like a hawk.
With every pittance so affixed:
Every snap or pitapat of fowl;
Or promenade of peas or carrot cairn,
Their sisterhood of salad a pageant of green;
And every ceramic steaming, even so-
The garlic breads still make great ashen foil.
This much is certain, and certain not to spoil.
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