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
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