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by Lana Kamel

I’m scared of the stove so my mother cooks my eggs.
Perhaps one day it will click, but today
I only know the contents of a pot can be a devilish thing,
and only my mother should make my skin boil,
strip me of my shell,

stick her gentle hand in the mayhem,
catch the fears that spread roots in my mind
through the stench of something rotten, delicately untangle
my mental clots

Perhaps she did, as everything in year 13 is blurry, curious, and tame
I’m older now,  still dropdead terrified of the stove,
and still I am scrambled.

The youngest daughter is supposed to cook for her mother in old age.
But I grew up and ran from the kitchen

became the egg in hot water that burst 
out of its shell
too soon thrown into the fire
Photo Courtesy of Steve Double
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