Seraphine
She works in a kitchen
on the back of a neighborhood.
She is quiet, rigid.
Her dignity knows no bounds.
The white apron covers
the past her country
left her.
Underneath her apron,
masked by her jubilant
black braids,
the guns are still firing.
In her stomach,
the machete still swings
at her peace.
The plates stacked neatly,
one on one.
The glasses clink softly.
Water drops,
forks polished,
knives stab,
child cries.
And her husband lies
at her feet
head cradled softly
in blood,
two small boys clinging
to his hands
and dragging her down
into order,
chaos warring
in her eyes.
The towel moves smoothly
over polished silver.
There are no hands
to smooth
her wrinkled mind.
This kitchen is no home.
Blood pools at her feet.
on the back of a neighborhood.
She is quiet, rigid.
Her dignity knows no bounds.
The white apron covers
the past her country
left her.
Underneath her apron,
masked by her jubilant
black braids,
the guns are still firing.
In her stomach,
the machete still swings
at her peace.
The plates stacked neatly,
one on one.
The glasses clink softly.
Water drops,
forks polished,
knives stab,
child cries.
And her husband lies
at her feet
head cradled softly
in blood,
two small boys clinging
to his hands
and dragging her down
into order,
chaos warring
in her eyes.
The towel moves smoothly
over polished silver.
There are no hands
to smooth
her wrinkled mind.
This kitchen is no home.
Blood pools at her feet.
bang! love it.
ReplyDeleteMerci! I know you warned against saying too much about the behind-the-scenes, but this one deserves it. This was about Seraphine, a friend and coworker of mine who had gone through the genocide in Rwanda. Amazing woman.
ReplyDeleteOh. Don't know whether to cheer or to shrink. That's good, but I'm concerned that the blood is still pooling. I feel a stirring impulse to bury the body and start cleaning, and I don't have to know why it happened.
ReplyDelete