Becoming a Matriarch

Polishing the sink at dawn
After emptying the ashes
Staring into the depths of the stove
Scooping with ladle
Making way for more fire

Curating a gallery of legumes and grains
Sliding buckets of rice and cake flour
Counting currants for clafoutis
Evading inquisition and criticism of those who

"Don't care about that."

Polishing the oven door 
Cleaning the glass to see the
Cake belly rising
Braiding my hair in the dark
Caressing the foreheads of dreaming children
Watching their faces age on our pillows

Advising, admonishing, witnessing
The patterns that are the blueprints of 
Who we are

"Not everything has to make sense."

To me it does
To sense is to
Taste, smell, hear, touch
The flavor of reality

Boiling a jammy egg
Crisping fish skin on cast iron
Bare feet shuffling on clean floor
The porcelain depths of a scrubbed toilet
Holding strands of vegetable peels
An offering to the microbes

I understand now
My grandmother's scouring her coffee mug
Aunty protecting herself from our help
Learning to swiftly zipper into her systems
Mother not knowing what to do

Polishing the sink at dawn
Every drop vanishing into steel
Brush strokes paint a sheen
So reflective
You can look back 
Generations