Iron and Oil

The microwave light is a sickly yellow

casting a square on the linoleum floor.

I’m waiting for the beep to tell me it’s done,

though I know the meat will be tough as a boot.

I think of the skillet she used,

that heavy, black disk of iron

with the chipped handle and the permanent coat of oil.

It sat on the back burner like an anchor.

My roast smells like nothing but heat and steam,

lacking the salt-crust and the slow, heavy gravity

of a kitchen that actually knew how to stay.