Sunday, 21 February 2010

re POEM 29

Identity II

plantain and yam porridge,
goat pepper soup, okra or okazi
stew coaxed from mother’s kitchen
on special days;

on other days: pear pancakes
sprinkled with lemon and sugar,
peanut butter and jam on thickly cut
bread from a Beit Hanina store, or a bowl
of warm milky porridge with a swirl of honey
stirred in -

stir memories from another place,
another time; a timeless place
where the kitchen table funneled
wafts like grandmother’s tales
told under clamorous darkness as we sat

around on a straw mat in the veranda of our Omoba
summer house, always before she’d drop off; her head
bopping, swollen lips drooling, her snores
deepening, lengthening...

until her morning Milo. Like grandmother's cryptic
sleep-face, my identity is as obscure as a can of Malt.

Catherine Mark


Linda S. Socha said...

I love this one. It is well done AND it makes me feel right at home

Dina said...

I like it too. A LOT.

Cynthia said...

Congrats Catherine!

A delicious poem, your usual
gentle prose evokes the aroma
and taste of a carib. kitchen.

Linda S. Socha said...

I can so into this picture. Thanks Catherine