From the Kitchen of my Childhood

by Myra King

In its cupboard corner

the Frigidaire


round shouldered, cold metal handle. 

An ice block heart

rushed home to the beat of its melt.


Around a table laminate-green,

chrome chairs

hard backed, numbering the same

as your family.


Thin edged knife on steel grey stone

sharpens in fluorescent glint.

Paper cooks frieze in a march

around the ceiling,

muffin hats greasy

from the regimen of

a hundred Sunday roasts.


Through the grime of a window

a bicycle basket,

long rope slung in an open faced shed,

filled with a pillow from your dreams.

You swing, and hope

its beam support

will never break.