The Kitchen Light

I write on the twenty-first day of the sixth month, 
twenty-twenty six, my birthday arriving within 
six weeks.

Solstice currently sits here in the sunshine home 
darkened by enlightened, colonised kitchen light.

Outside, the dark trills. In fact, Imbolc reflects 
in windows I see a winter kitchen lamb outside
in the splintered dark.

The dark senses its scores, pained bugs light
spread over barred windows between my face
and them, I stand in kitchen light. 

The kitchen light came from private land built 
on a grandfather’s wish, left by the cousin last
London Barrow Boys landing on fresh portered 
bread from the wars.

His right, intelligence, and wife (my Nan) lived 
little more than grandad did, English Marmalade 
cupboards left — just before expiry — for me.

Now, next to the jars, a One Nation haircut fits
in kitchen light able to sit in my wallet, I fear 
more than the chicken-eating wallabies Nan 
taught my sister Skye how to feed outside,
like a Cook.

This kitchen light up until now was normal. 
I’m not comforted by this interest anymore
in properties, profits and gambling what’s
left in my pocket!

What does one got in its pockets, anyway? 
I study a degree in Kitchen Lights. One 
vulnerability dangles, I munch criminal 
justice, history or monsters — or maybe 
the something I can marry with.

The pockets hold promise, no compromise,
in protest of plaster, a Porter-honest answer
I wish to be an accomplice to turn off (not dim) 
the damned fucking kitchen light.