In a quiet kitchen, I recall my home

There are no loud voices here

No laughter in the house

Just quiet pots bubbling and hissing away

If I were to recall the way the island smelled

I’m sure the fruit trees would be first

There are no fruit trees here

No one of my kind

In a faraway place from the island breeze

I regret this place

This quiet kitchen

Reminds me of a foreign tongue that now crosses my lips

The smell of the island lingers here 

Yet, I can’t replicate the sound

The honking of horns as church ladies hold their hats

I have heard too many curses in my memories of home

In this quiet kitchen

Not even the music can replace the voices

No laughing

The sound of dominoes or the rum bar that opened next door

I wonder what my neighbors are cooking

Are they their missing home in crowded kitchens as I? 

I wonder if they dance when the pots begin to simmer 

It’s a bit too cold for dancing now

No island breeze to tell them

I’ve stopped by for a little time to forget the silence

I hate cooking alone 

No singing in this quiet kitchen 

In a foreign landscape, no fruits trees linger beyond my fingertips 

Fixing notions of homesickness on my tongue 

For a moment the pot will open, flavor dances around me 

I turn to ask the opinion of another 

Silence 

A quiet kitchen filled with a fragrance of home,

yet the island is so far from this room