Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2011

Kitchen Made

by Winston Plowes

Nothing exists
beyond her breasts
as the salt and pepper salute.
Eyelids basted, red.
Hob and oven in perfect step.
Fat, smoking hot.
Her hips stacked white,
like bowls exposed
chinked to a rhythm of sorts.
Black Sunday skirt on tenterhooks
she handles eggs religiously.
The days keep pushing past.
Red Herringbone bricks
mark out dance steps on the hearth
as the rag-rug soaks up Radio 4.
Any other woman would have
melted herself in magpies’ gold
and stared at her own reflection.
Stiched together by three children
and a course of dishwasher tablets.

Added: 16.01.2011

Judges' comments on this poem


Very descriptive, but I couldn't identify any overarching message or purpose.