Women Belong in the Kitchen

when I am sad, I like to

cook. something so therapeutic

about setting an ingredient to flame, and

watching it s i z z l e over the fire.

whipping out a large kitchen knife to chop it up.

kinda like I'm chopping my pain up.

that would feel good,

I think,

my friend says it's the woman in me

who enjoys this laborious, domestic task

because he sure wouldn't.

I laugh at him.

maybe he is right?

maybe women are meant for the kitchen?

where else would we let it out?

the frustration, the bitterness, the rage.

women are born to create,

so we make food.

through the pursuit of cooking,

we express our love and our misery.

between bites of bread,

we swallow our cries.

between sips of tea,

we hush our scalding tongues, and

bite back the curses on those tips.

with each spoonful of rice,

we fill up our mouths so there's no room

for a single word to overflow.

I, too, am a woman.

there's so much I want to say and do. until then,

I'll keep spitting poison

into the meals I serve and out of love, let you have the first bite.