her favorite room

she wasn't much

for cooking.

she was more of a restaurant

girl.

or order in, or out.

pick

or delivery. but on occasion

she'd give it a shot

and stand

sweating in the kitchen

with every pot

and pan full of something.

three recipe books,

and her phone open to

some pasta dish.

the bread would catch fire,

the smoke alarm would go

off.

pots overflowed

and she'd burn herself

on the stove.

but it didn't matter.

the kitchen was not her

room.

chinese? she'd say in the end,

before taking me

up the stairs

to the bedroom.