Rage disguised as love
is toxic poison,
a slow trickle of acquiescence
that builds in the gut
and leaves no room for light.
It hides gently in
the simmer of a hundred thousand cooking pots,
the quiet scratching of a million brooms.
It seeps into the broth;
brooms trace generational residues.
The lover takes her broom
to shake at the beloved,
yells at him to leave his muddy boots outside,
tells him to walk for a while in the rain.
The lover fills her insipid pot
by looking in the cupboard,
finding unexpected flavours to share.
Stirring and stirring, she waits in her own time,
tasting the fruits of his labour and hers,
preparing an offering for their mutual pleasure.
When the meal is ready,
she calls with the true voice of adoration.