Sunday, 1 February 2009
Your Vantage Newworld Oven Dreams
Nothing says loving like something from the oven
I can remember when I would
turn heads. When it mattered what you
offered. I know you can’t believe
when you look at the splattered top
and burnt black oven but once my skin
glistened. Women who wish my brand,
first wanted style and the white that hid
being a package cook. My oven
from the first day had no Coq au Vin,
beef stew or fruit pies to invite
watered mouths open for physical pleasuring.
Instead, children survived on fridge
food warmed in my pristine belly;
for the women’s idea of a
special night in was a meat slab
mallet murdered so dead twice
and then eyes right as it ripples.
Who now cares that I stood for the
posture of work shy gals. Yet my
owner kept me sparkling not that
this was an effort. And with the time
she saved, I blush to say anything
about who called when her husband
was out innocent. I should have ended
my time in that house as I wasn’t
going to be worn out except
her husband came back to find that
a spit roast doesn’t always require
an oven. Well that was me ripped out
and sold on to student drudgery.
Early risers burnt my surface,
late owls obscured my oven function
with a room heater for heated late night
conversations. As you would guess, no sleep
is bad. And as scrubbing was what
they did on a Friday, I was
soon down to two top flames and an
oven door that you kicked to click shut.
, I mean me who was voted oven of
the year in eighty. Now the scrap yard
van calls to take me to my death.
A white goddess replaces my space
as fate fumbles to see what I
become: car, plane, saucepan. But my
secret hope recasts me as top
stove for celebrity Jamie Oliver
so food at last made not warmed.
And I kitchen queen to chief king.