Elizabeth Lara
Kitchen Gadgets
Praise the kitchen where the gadgets wait in mute
competition, where I stand looking out the window
over white peace lily blooms and snake plant spikes,
where out of the corner of my eye I catch the philodendron
stretching yet another tentacle through the open porch window,
green against the yellow of my kitchen wall already dotted
with faint tracks of prior invading shoots; praise its tenacity.
Praise the neighbors’ houses, distant white behind black
November tree trunks, his flying flag, their blue front door,
their stories I imagine while the blender growls a bellyful
of Dominican sazón; praise the sharpened paring knife
that chopped green pepper, diced garlic and onion, cut cilantro.
Praise my kitchen shears, broken handles wrapped in black
electric tape; bags of almonds and Crimson Seedless grapes
clamor to be opened. Boiled eggs agitate the waters
in the cooking pot, must soon submit to the grip
of the egg slicer hiding under the measuring cups;
praise its razor wires. Praise my mother’s flour sifter,
gift that spreads her love of cakes and pies, praise the cookies
it makes for grandchildren who stop by. Praise my mother-in-law,
master chef of rice and beans and pollo guisado,
who in the last week before she died called to her side
her nieces and grandnieces and gave all her kitchen gadgets away.
My Mother’s Qi
I would like to tell you about the subtle florals in the draperies of our
living room, colors that matched the rug, taken down and cleaned
every spring. About the oak dining set that squeaked and wobbled
but elegantly seated ten. About the meals she planned, artist
in her studio, carefully coordinating colors, flavors, textures –
a menu at each place setting. This gave her joy. In the spring
she gathered tulips, hyacinths, daffodils; in the summer, tiger lilies,
zinnias, roses. And I would like to tell you how she always
fixed sandwiches for hungry homeless men who knocked on our door.
How she always made time to read her newspaper, on Sundays
the New York Times. How she dreamed of one day seeing a play
on Broadway, although she never did, how she took us to plays
and lectures, often sparing the cost by not going along.
How she surrounded herself with soft colors – beige vase
with dried sea holly, crystal candy dish, porcelain figurines –
all in balance before anyone had ever heard of feng shui.
I would like to tell you about the hundred boxes
of light bulbs on the basement shelf, my father’s legacy,
the shelf that went on giving some twenty years
after his passing. About our tacit understanding
of what was not to be said. About her fried chicken,
battered, buttered and better than any fried chicken, anywhere;
about her favorite menu, the one we all loved to hate –
cubed steak, cream-style corn, green peas. I would like to tell you
how she filled her closet with dresses that she would buy, consider,
but often return. Was it frugality or buyer’s remorse? We never knew.
I would like to tell you that she was always there for each of us.
Elizabeth Lara’s poems have appeared in print and online in numerous anthologies and journals, in both English and Spanish. She co-edited Happiness: The Delight-Tree, An Anthology of Contemporary International Poetry, and curated the MER VOX folio “Soy Mujer: Latinx Poets of the Diaspora.” Her bilingual chapbook, Fire in the Mind / Fuego en la Mente, was published in 2019. Videos are available on The Poetry Channel.