I stand with a sharp knife in my hand
Unnerved by its cool, shining blade<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I am at the sink helping my cousin cook
in her bright, spacious, kitchen<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I am enfolded by the light,
but I do not know about measurement, saucepans, mixes<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I am one of those few women who did not learn to cook in her mother\u2019s kitchen<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I only know how to work with words, phrasing, stillnesses
Where to begin?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I scrape at the potato slowly,
It is rough and unwilling<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I would prefer to be outside in the large garden,
Making a slow dance by the pink petunias<\/p>\n\n\n\n
or sitting near the birch tree under the still sun
feeling its light shift over my shoulders<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Or at my old manual typewriter
hearing the tap of the keys, spaces, possibilities<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Yet I am stuck with this knife, chiseling away at the potato
Not sure If I am making progress or skimming too close to its core<\/p>\n\n\n\n
While working, I picture my great grandmother in rural Ireland
The cold wind whirling by her house<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Out on a hill, far from town
a rural shack with a great fireplace at its center<\/p>\n\n\n\n
How she tried to keep warm in that place
A gathering of cows in a nearby field<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was a widow
turning withered pages of the Bible over in her firm hands<\/p>\n\n\n\n
With small, thin frame,
a black shawl gathered around her shoulders
She stood bent over in the kitchen for hours,
shut in<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I do not want my great grandmother\u2019s life
The kitchen\u2019s heat stifling her<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I would rather take in the orange sun outside
the cool fresh air, the still sparrow standing in the shifting breeze<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I want to step into this summer day of ease
unfolding orange petals<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Yet I am stuck here trying to cut a way out of a rough vegetable
Trying to get through this task, so that it will come to an end<\/p>\n\n\n\n
so that I will be able to put this knife down
and return again to the sounds and rhythms of words.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
to the melancholy stories of my great grandmother
That have found their way into this pen<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stand with a sharp knife in my handUnnerved by its cool, shining blade I am at the sink helping my cousin cookin her bright, spacious, kitchen I am enfolded by the light,but I do not know about measurement, saucepans, mixes I am one of those few women who did not learn to cook in … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3885","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/pa867U-10F","jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3885","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3885"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3885\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3886,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3885\/revisions\/3886"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3885"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3885"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3885"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
Dorothy Johnson-Laird is a poet and social worker who lives in New York City. She received an M.F.A in creative writing from Sarah Lawrence College. Dorothy also works as a music journalist with a passion in African music. She has published journalism with www.afropop.org and www.worldmusiccentral.org, among others. More of Dorothy\u2019s poetry can be found at https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/Dorothy-Johnson-Laird-Poet-106451582140735<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"