My Caribbean Kitchen

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My Caribbean Kitchen

Hot and adorable smelly;
Grandma hanging there,
Thinking about her best
Meals for the day;
I was still in my bed,
Lost in a deep dense
Of soft cottons reposable,
Dreaming all about,
But all about kids stuff.

No intention to wake up,
Impossible to get up;
The breeze of my nights,
Coming through my windows,
Made of my Caribbean spirits,
Caressing my hearing.

Also coming through,
The dawning sunny rays,
Cajoling my eyelids.

Still no intention to wake up,
Impossible to get up;
C'est l'accoutume.

Six O'clock in the morning,
I call it Grandma's time;
New harmony with her kitchen tools
Filled in my bedroom;

The breeze of her cuisine
Belle et bien substituted
The breeze of my nights.

No intention to wake up,
Now Possible to get up.
Here it comes l'odeur
De sa belle mouvante;
Coming through mon odorat,
Making my mirror of the soul
Semi-ouvert semi-ferme;
Electrifying my body,
Stretching my flesh, and cracking my bones.

Telle impulsion irresistible,
Naturally and inevitably,
Directs me to discover
My Grandma's Main Menu

Pure green vegetables
Boiled in a big fat bowl;
Freshly and smelly fruits,
Picking from my big back yard;
A big pot of boiled goat milk,
Serving with its own cream;
Hot bread baked across street;
No labo eggs, no labo meat
No bagged juice, No bagged weed
No factory hot chocolate,
No starbucks, no Duncan;
My original hot black coffee,
Cafe au lait avec du pain au beurre;
My peanut butter and my jelly;
Natural is the matter on my table.

Daddy is busy in his bowl;
Maman tries to get more;
Kids mess up the table;
Grandma is all smile;
My dog plays his catches;
My little sister's cat
Over polishing her plate;
Then, I sign it
My Caribbean Kitchen.

By Lavaud Desmoulins

The Dark Knight, February 15 2009, 6:14 AM

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