Arshi Mortuza

 MALFUNCTIONS OF A POETIC KITCHEN

My muse arrived
In an unfashionable, ink-stained apron,
Her hair twisted in a claw clip.

Avoiding pleasantries,
She headed straight to the kitchen
And began unpacking fresh ingredients
For our next poem.

We had milky memories — best used before they curdled,
Fruity longings — sweetness could attract flies,
Canned grief — don’t shake before opening.

The stove didn’t heat that day.
The blender didn’t spin.
The tap didn’t pour.
And the star of the dish —
The trauma hadn’t thawed.

I offered her lemonade,
But the limes had no juice.
We squeezed out every last drop the week before
For little lemon-tart haikus.

Those rare days my pantry of pain
Feel a little less loaded!
Muse stormed out, slamming the front door,
Leaving my kitchen a mess.

Could that mean —
I’m happy today?

TIN-FOILED LESSONS FROM TIME

After Muse went off in a huff —
And the Poetess called it a night,
Time entered the Poetic Kitchen,
Using her spare key.
An oversized bag slung over her shoulder
With cleaning supplies tinkling inside,
A mop in her other hand.

Mind you, it was a mop, not a broom she flew in on.
Not a sorcerer in the traditional sense —
But surely an alchemist in her
Slow, steady ways.

She wiped sticky feelings from the counters,
Threw out trash bags filled with
Soggy sonnets,
Inedible elegies,
Half-baked ballads.
She cracked the window
To let out the air of despair.

Time cleaned just enough
For the Poetess to wake up to a little less clutter.
With just enough leftovers
For Muse to feed on.

The pain, the lessons — She wrapped them in tinfoil
And stocked in the freezer
With a scribbled note in cursive that read:
In case either of you get hungry.