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Mieke Eerkens

Location: Sausalito, CA


Lilting pumpkin bread nights,
in wood and sleek cold refrigerated hums,
I sit in the kitchen and
watch my mother.
The lights are soft
the voices not
In the back of my brain,
a vagueness.

Once were hard boiled eggs
under windows of creamy sunlight,
high-chaired chortles
on creaky benched love.
Once were dinners
in sloppy spaghetti fun,
greasy charismatic nights
with optimistic formica.
But wood gets old
and paint gets dull,
like with a lot of things.
And in the wall
next to the fridge,
now lives the fist hole,
defiantly sucking the heat.