Chatham-Kent 1. Meal Cycle

1.     Meal Cycle

I.

I wake them with a gentle

shake

and a, “Madainn mhath!”

then warm the stove top for

tender, jelly-like

eggs

that grow dark

and hard as the

large hot pan attacks the soft

new edges.

I pop and butter toast, bake

scones as my gran did;

fry bacon from the new

country that

bubbles till it shrinks and

curls into itself.

We say grace, talk

about what the teacher wanted

who has practice later

what he said at school

 when they’ll

be home. I

kiss them

Goodbye.

II.

Work rushes,

children,

touch,

warmth

absent from the swim

of frenetic

fiddling email

schedules

calls

travel

no food,

no rest,

no sitting down

 then

 gone.

III.

The children wander home at their

own time,

one

after another

the order of age.

Now the soup of the day

simmers on the stove

all the past dinners

absorbing the cold

liquid fats between the

tarragon rosemary

turmeric

softening the crusty

edges of hard meat

bread, rice.

They talk of meals

in other homes

now. Children

I will not wake

any longer,

no dishes,

no pudding

stories of lunches

in classes with

sandwiches and

celery sticks,

the supper

of a life well fed.