SCENT AND ORCHESTRA CONCERT
My mother
when she invites us for a Sunday lunch
she prepares
scent and orchestra concert
everything is different
in her 3 by 4 kitchen
the pots sing the lids fall
plates and dishes knock
salt and sugar rain
the white tablecloth with the white embroidery is intact
spoons, forks and knives are tuned
the chopping board sighs, the onion tears
the mortar and pestle with cloves, vanilla and nutmeg
yearn for Asia
the tap too sings
the hotplates are timpani drums
the oven is the hot belly of the kitchen
the birthplace of bread
it grows and overflows
the soup is full of carrots and celery
and the pots on the window step
even the small teacup
the last of the former set from her modest wedding
shines with live yolk
and the newspaper on which the chopped parsley dries is rustling
and my father looks both at my mother and at his memory
when she climbs the stairs in front of him and laughs out of breath
and the freshly roasted red peppers smell too
it is the end of summer 2005
and they take off (do a striptease) their skin
and my mother
is somehow cheerful somehow calm
behind her on the shelf is the blood pressure meter
and a cardboard shoe box full of medicine
she’d sing while sprinkling the vanilla cookies with powdered sugar
she’d sing
and I’d do it together with her