A Whore in the Kitchen

The long seam that runs
down the edge of my forearm
remembers the hot cookie sheet,
bisects the mouth-like blemish
below the elbow, a souvenir
from the broiler pan.
Its older sibling, a scar
like a thin, brown scowl
on the other arm
remains from some
now-forgotten oven disaster.

Before my body, it was the pots
that got scarred — saucepans
blackened so deeply by popcorn
that even a series
of baking soda cures
could not revive them,
frying pans forever mutilated
by a deadly mix
of confusion and neglect.

When my saintly husband
took over the cooking chores,
it was fine by me.
He liked to say
I was a whore in the kitchen,
and there wasn’t much to say
about saints.