Oven Mitt

Minutes in, days out, I would succumb To an electric wave of heat: this once Tidy dress lined in cotton and quilt now appears Scratched like a hand-me-down cloth; My upper ribs tossed into a furnace While the sizzling smoke chokes this neck… Yet, Milady is not done with her slew of cuisine. She tightens my back amiably in fetal position Carrying jars, kettles, and pans ... with me As her absorber from the burn of summer; Her food tester masking like an undercover aide. Yes, we are both overworked. I observe her Lounging on a pantry chair inclined to cleanse My body reeking of oil, grease, and pepper. O Milady is genteelness, that skin so milky white, Her fingers patting my dry cheeks before night breaks While she glides out the door in lilting hums… And only then can I lie on the sill to rest quietly Under the glittering weave of tender moonlight. -- Potholder Contest of Craig Cornish 5/15/2020