Ode to a Housewife’s Mixing Bowl


to a small appliance,


of domestic industry.

Kitchen companion

of thirteen years,

Caressed by

thirteen thousand scars.

She is more anvil

than hammer,

More mule

than Muse.

She is a basin,

not a fountain,

But from her arms are borne

the cakes of joy,

the bread of life,

and the loaves of consolation.

By her scars we know–

we taste, we see–

a lover’s love,

a mother’s delight,

a home’s chief comfort.

Heralded as a heartbeat,

silent and servile,

She gives and never takes.

A cradle of confection,

partner to the paddle’s dance.

This is the ode

to the bowl from whom

our bread is begotten.

She is steady,

She is sure.

She is proven as the sunrise.

A housewife’s mixing bowl.

January 2, 2021

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