Communal Kitchen

We are critical of mothers. Motherhood is a facet of patriarchy that requires inherent female sacrifice. We expect so much out of moms, the superheroes of the domestic world. “Communal Kitchen” critiques that burden and portrays my mother as human.

In short, my father had multiple bouts of lymphoma cancer while I was growing up. My mom cared for my father, managed four daughters, and set up a new home in an apartment at the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance.

One day, my mom told me that no one had asked how she was doing in weeks. Years later, she revealed the story featured in this poem.

My mother spills merlot, seeping in,

it warms the sterile communal kitchen.

It’s three am and not a single person

this week––or month––has asked

if she’s okay. The white granite top

cradles her deep seamed brow.

She sheds motherhood for the hour.

Four daughters and other burdens:

an apartment full of cancer patients

and a Bible on the bedside, waiting.

Today she received my father’s

worsened diagnosis. She kissed him

goodnight and walked two miles

in fluorescent stars of Seattle pollution.

My mother doesn’t drink, but today

she has bought the most expensive red, drank

from the bottle and left it half empty.

Jacket long forgotten and center of gravity

gone, she dances her drunk fingers

along the row of stainless-steel boxes

and leaves the corked bottle in a fridge door.

Written By Tara Hollander