In this Kitchen, & Mandarin by Zoe Ridgway
In this Kitchen
In this kitchen
there is a frying pan
and oil static
mushroom gills trying to
hide behind
glossier vegetables.
The pot next door
is boiling over
I watch the bubbles
rewind as I turn down
the heat
treading that fine line
between a simmer
and snuffing out
the element flame
I click the igniter
again until the
fire returns
blue as obedience
and I wonder
about the time
when people decided to
take what was outside
and make a fire
with buttons and dials.
In this kitchen
there is no weather
she waits by the door.
Some nights I sneak her
in through the window
as she coughs on the
fly screen
into this kitchen
pressing stories
on my skin
of people who still cook outside
of a time when everyone had to.
She says it must
be easy
to forget things
between four walls
and I remember
how safe the air
was before
so safe it was
forgettable.
I ask her to stay a while
but she just smiles
and says
‘You will get cold’.
and although I wish
she was wrong
I close the window.
The air turns still.
In this kitchen
there is steam blushing
on anything that’s glass
and a frying pan
full vegetables from
places I don’t know.
Mandarin
on the way home
I pull out a mandarin
stripping the white strings
off its back
piece by piece
spitting out the pips
when no stranger
is looking
citrus skin in
my hand
I wait for an empty street
break into the red bin
outside number 63
and throw the peel inside
you see
the best of sins
hide behind
thick plastic
and redemption
comes on a Friday
not missing a single street
that engine hiss enough
to fracture the morning
then
quiet
there’s no peace
like the quiet
that follows a
garbage truck
and there’s no sense
of complacency that
isn’t packaged
that isn’t held
to a toast by
keep cup talismans
and the canvas bags
don’t feel like they're holding a revolution
anymore
on Fridays
the curb looks just as
heavy with
weight that can’t
be lost when everyone
knows where it's heading
I look to my empty hands
and ask them
how far have my fingerprints
travelled?
I ask them
how do I
feel an extinction
like a funeral
like a breakup
like a world that has more
than one pair of eyes
but somewhere I know
I’m not
big enough
to hold that kind of pain
this brain knows
concrete better as a way home
as our connection
rather than another’s tombstone
I've been trying
to look at all the
things I’ve ever owned
like their birth certificate
isn’t a barcode
isn’t a sticker
on mandarin chest
but a seed buried
out of season into
the earth’s breast
I guess
I just want to
remember
what I don’t know
don’t you too?
Keep up with Zoe’s poetry on her Facebook!
Executive Producers
Karolina Ristevski
Sue White
Daniel Henson
Elliot Cameron
