I.

Her kitchen does not belong

just to her

but also to

Mother.

Another

inside the first.

In that fold of night

when other kitchens

settle into uselessness,

this second woman

breaks on the stove

like a pitcher

hitting a patio.

II.

The Material of Night Meals:

              a tiny cyclone of flour,

                            more and more deep,

                                          croaking piles of leafy matter,

                                                        enough great vats of some staining broth.

III.

Well and lesser known

meals meet when

two

(perched at the table)

smile politely,

breaking bread

in the shape of a dagger