Domestic Goddess

My
mother told
me that if I were smart, I too
would become a domestic goddess, like her.
For one thing, she says that they are the wisest of women
armed with the sacred knowledge that tonic water can eradicate most stains
or that baking soda in the refrigerator can keep most meats from spoiling too quickly.
She argues that Aphrodite’s beauty pales in comparison to the colors of laundered clothes
and a supper of tepid, golden chicken that only an experienced domestic goddess can achieve.
Our home is her Mt. Olympus
and the kitchen serves as Mother’s temple,
despite the fact that there is no sculpture erected in her honor,
unless you want to count the vanilla candle that I made for her last Christmas.
Her nimble fingers scold my clumsier ones as they falter over slicing salad greens.
I say that Homer has a broader mind’s eye than any goddess, I’d much rather write The Iliad.