Amee Nassrene Broumand
Kitchen Work through the Centuries
Diamond chips rattle on the fingers of dead women washing dishes
underground. Teeth grasp the room as jaws solidify. I find an eight-eyed
Jack creeping up my bedpost & toss him from the parapet to spin
his web alone. Surface vortex—whirls of snow, hairpin turns
down the mountain. A plough hits the witch’s daughter. Eggshells scatter,
sparking new dimensions over the faces of the crowd. The clock growls
above the hearth, revealing blood lions in the wallpaper.
Cutlery scrapes & clatters as the diners chew cold gristle.
Dandelions rush the scythe, leaves pitter patter en pointe
across the street. Old masks escape a bin & rise into the night.
Stooped over the fire, my face flickers as the curtains flap,
reshaping the silence. Pillows are pillows, twill is twill--
one day the goose wakes to a haunted bed.
The household sleeps. Cephalopod Jane weeps in her kitchen lair,
her arms spiraling to Saturn. Old stumps whir, alive with lizards
slime molds & microscopic bears. Will my dust return to the stars?
Luminous, bandaged in burgundy cloth, my grandmother’s face
sets into the night ocean. Thunder for the sun is nothing,
but the reeds are stunned.
underground. Teeth grasp the room as jaws solidify. I find an eight-eyed
Jack creeping up my bedpost & toss him from the parapet to spin
his web alone. Surface vortex—whirls of snow, hairpin turns
down the mountain. A plough hits the witch’s daughter. Eggshells scatter,
sparking new dimensions over the faces of the crowd. The clock growls
above the hearth, revealing blood lions in the wallpaper.
Cutlery scrapes & clatters as the diners chew cold gristle.
Dandelions rush the scythe, leaves pitter patter en pointe
across the street. Old masks escape a bin & rise into the night.
Stooped over the fire, my face flickers as the curtains flap,
reshaping the silence. Pillows are pillows, twill is twill--
one day the goose wakes to a haunted bed.
The household sleeps. Cephalopod Jane weeps in her kitchen lair,
her arms spiraling to Saturn. Old stumps whir, alive with lizards
slime molds & microscopic bears. Will my dust return to the stars?
Luminous, bandaged in burgundy cloth, my grandmother’s face
sets into the night ocean. Thunder for the sun is nothing,
but the reeds are stunned.
Biography
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Amee Nassrene Broumand (she/her/they/them) is an Iranian-American poet from the Pacific Northwest. Nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize, her work has appeared in FIVE:2:ONE, Sundog Lit, A-Minor Magazine, Empty Mirror, Menacing Hedge, Barren Magazine, & elsewhere. She served as the March 2018 Guest Editor for Burning House Press. Find her on Twitter @AmeeBroumand.
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