
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