is not nonstick
but if I stir the raw ground beef
while it cooks, it won’t burn.
Mother used to sip whiskey
while she stood in front of the stove
even though a stool was right beside her.
She would talk to me while stirring
up shit, and I would halfway listen
while the local news
blared from the other room
where my father
drank too much scotch,
the cocktail hour something
I thought normal in families
that were normal, unlike mine.
Now here I am sitting on the stool
and sipping water, fresh strawberries
and lime floating in glass tumbler,
the sizzling meat no longer pink
but dark brown like the melanoma
that took Mother away.
Laurie Kolp’s poems have appeared in Stirring, Whale Road Review, Up the Staircase, and more. Her poetry books include the full-length Upon the Blue Couch and chapbookHello, It's Your Mother. An avid runner and lover of nature, Laurie lives in Southeast Texas with her husband, three children, and two dogs.
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