My Mother’s Recipes Villanelle — by Irvana K. Wilks
After she died, she freed me to love her. A ghost dwells in the slant script of her hand. I read her recipes like love letters, trying to make out who I was to her.
Cream one cup butter to blend. After she died, she freed me to love her.
Cooking advice. Not jewels to fight over became her legacy. Beat eggs by hand.
I search the script like a lover’s letter. Mood shifts, laughs, hugs, pummeling anger. I lived on guard. Was she fury or friend? After she died, she freed me to love her.
Sift flour, salt, soda and baking powder. Her mania did not blunt me in the end, but her batter-stained, yellowing cards let her remain a puzzle.
I thank my mother that she left me notes in her slant hand. After she died, she freed me to love her. and I read her recipes like love letters.
The End
Authors Note — Bold italics were from Mama’s recipes. Using the Villanelle form was a fit for the poem. A famous Villanelle was written by Dylan Thomas in: Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night.