The hinge on the garlic press is loose
by Pam Makin
making its plate wobble in its perforated bowl
as I squeeze, pushing pungent plumpness
through forty-seven holes, slivers escape
up the sides, out over the top where they
will not be crushed or pressed into service
for the sake of my need for flavoured carbs.
The pepper grinder won’t grind anymore,
the dome top spins loosely on its spindle in
unproductive circles, my efforts pointless.
And that grater like a hamster wheel for
parmesan? Same. Round it goes, cheese
thumps against the sides, no tangy snow.
I don’t know if it’s you that I miss
or your carbonara…
Pam Makin is a writer living on the unceded lands of the Kaurna people, Adelaide, South Australia. She is known for her poetry, spoken word, and flash fiction. Her work has been described as “like chocolates, restorative and comforting, boxed neatly and offered generously.” She learned to cook in her mother’s kitchen where spaghetti came cans and cheese in a blue cardboard box. You can read more of Pam’s work at pammakin.com.au
