I learned sighs in the kitchens of my childhood
along with towel flicks, food fights, and stern
instruction to dry a glass again to remove
evil water spots or anything else the night’s
dish washer had missed. Do it again was my
mother’s hovering mantra. Dad just got overwhelmed.
As head chef most holidays, he was loath
to hand over the prep tools, and had
ideas about how it all needed to go down.
This required we give him wide berth
be ready to spring into action when
his breathing began to resemble groans
-something he learned in his own mother’s kitchen.
Crumbs in the dishwater
a too-thick julienne
clumps in the mash
too many bodies – movement in space
not enough help when the dinner bell rang
you could cut it all with a knife
I imagine that the pause before the supper prayer
may have involved a silent inherited scream
one long breath to re-calibrate rage
find gratitude in the things he controlled,
the mess which was his (for us) alone but
that we’d clean up afterward
no questions asked.
“…it was hard to breathe gently, and sighing was out of the question..”
from I Just Lately Started Buying Wings by Kim Dana Kupperman
Early Morning Poems 