Heidi Kenyon

 

Even Sheets

When my mother left her third marriage
she took up ironing. First her own
clothes, then mine; soon my doll's
dresses. Even sheets. She showed me
how to open seams flat,
to start with the yoke and let
everything flow from there.
Sometimes she put little creases
in the fabric as she pressed
the big ones out. Musty,
floral scents of starch and sizing
wafted from her room, next to mine;
I fell asleep to the breathing
sound of the iron's steam.

Farm to Table

Does splitting
wood in the rain wash
blood off the axe?

"New agrarianism" sounds
pretty fantastic in print.
Feathers in the kindling,

new, chaotic red flowers
on my pink barn boots.

Eight Kisses

“Sending you eight kisses;
place them where you will.”

Take my hand, in the bar, to begin; brush my
inner wrist with your absinthe lips, send a flutter
of alcohol fire up the radius. Then hold my coat

and as I slip in, catch my jawbone with
your teeth, gently, with a teasing flicker,
and convert that to a chaste cheek kiss to remind

me to keep my shirt on.
In the car cup my chin
as if you mean to kiss me soundly,

but stop, let those sea eyes sparkle, and kiss
my own eyes instead, and bid me wait.
Outside the door, as you jangle

with the keys, don’t kiss me at all; beckon
me in, and take my coat off, and let
your lips caress intricately my top

few vertebrae; your fingers shall explore
the bounds of the velvet bodice. Come
around, push that moss-soft cloth away

from my body, place your next well-chosen
kiss on my breast, just beside the nipple,
to tell me you’re in charge of what comes now

and you’re about to send me spinning. Pin
my hands behind me and breathe lower,
kiss my navel; touch

with your tongue the past and the knotted
ribbon of reverse eternity.  Yes, lower.
Yes, let your lips unlock me, where you kneel

with such intensity, and let the seventh
be the first true kiss after the sweet forever
between then and when you remove

that scrap of thin black lace.
Feast. And finally, now, come here
unto me, and best of all the eight:

give me your mouth.

CP

Heidi Kenyon is the retired co-founder of a cooking school, a former editor at the University of Idaho Press, and the mother of three. She lives in Seattle, Washington.

Heidi Kenyon

—Photo by Heidi Kenyon

I made the most kickass potato salad last night. Fortunately for me, none of the kids like it, so it's mine, all mine! They can have PB&J or tuna for lunch and I will eat a pint of potato salad.

I'm not regressing to my old job here, so you're on your own for quantities. Make it look right and don't forget to taste it! A lot! Add more of whatever until you've got a flavor you like.

Hmm, I think it's easiest to write this recipe more or less in the style of Joy:

Bleu-Green Potato Salad

Boil in heavily salted water until tender when pierced with a fork:

whole, skin-on waxy potatoes such as Red Bliss or Yukon Gold, not russets

Meanwhile, combine in a large bowl:

radishes, sliced or diced small
a shitload of fresh dill, chopped
finely chopped celery, if you're into it
lots of crumbled blue cheese
bacon bits, if you so desire

When the potatoes are done, drain and then cool them with cold water. Cut them into smallish cubes and add to the bowl. Then put in:

sour cream to coat everything well
kosher salt and lots of black pepper

Mix together, taste, and adjust seasoning. Add more dill, salt, and pepper if you like. If the flavor is just a little flat, splash in some

sherry vinegar

or other acid to your taste. Enjoy at room temperature or chilled.

Duh, refrigerate leftovers.

CP

Heidi Kenyon ran a culinary school until the current economic malaise closed its doors. Now she and her family live on a small farm on an island in Puget Sound. Details of their lifestyle and more of her delightfully eccentric recipes can be found at post-urban farm wife.

Child Support
Heidi Kenyon

My mother's mouth was ugly,
her two fingers tweezing into the pocket
of my unfortunate green plaid shirt.
I stood frozen but for a twitch of my head
to avoid her hand: even its brush against my braid
would make me that much more involved.

The neatly folded check was a two-handed saw:
its rasp against the flannel as she withdrew it
echoed the grate of my father depositing it,
his own mouth twisted.
Not until I had shame to hide from my own daughter
did I recognize the shadow over his eyes.

I did not hear the teeth
of that finely perforated edge, catching
in the threadbare fibers of my heart,
until it whispered from the wireless static
behind my ex's phone message. His voice
is not more cordial than normal, as I first think:
it's compressed like a sentient wild Slinky.
He is restraining it from the glowing red gravity
of a staircase we've been down before.

His accusation falls open before me,
a yawning aperture of truth
into which I must fall, like the lemming
to the scourging sea: there is no escape
from what he says, from the middle
into which my mother has now placed my own daughter,
from the words her mouth has made, which must have begun
"Your father..."
and I am falling through time,

the ugliness is upon me, a great crush
pain, rage, need, desperation
and I never connected the folded check
with the food stamps when I was eight

CP

Heidi Kenyon is the retired co-founder of a cooking school, a former editor at the University of Idaho Press, and the mother of three. She lives in Seattle, Washington.

Kneeling
Heidi Kenyon

in front of the washing machine,
checking his pockets, I find
receipts, a grocery list,
a folded paper that, when opened,
bursts into flame,
chars a chunk out of my chest
and sears itself to my heart,
melting on like hot plastic
dripping over a vermillion chuck roast.
Hot burned flesh smell briefly;
gagging.

I get dinner for the children. I read stories.
I place both hands over my temples.
What am I trying to hold in?
I put away the dinner, make sure
my chest keeps rising. The bloody roast
cannot be felt within the cavity.
I put the children in pajamas,
read more books,
put away toys,
feel the crinkle
of the paper in my pocket, its lip curled.
Toothpaste, vitamins, drinks of water,
I am Wile E. Coyote, post-steamroller:
can't they see I'm as flat
as this piece of paper?

Go to bed,
go back to bed, let's go potty, go back to bed
so I can sit here in the dark,
waiting for your father,
waiting, breathing, trying, willing,
for him to come home.

CP

Heidi Kenyon is the retired co-founder of a cooking school,
a former editor at the University of Idaho Press, and the mother of three. She lives in Seattle, Washington.