An argument with mother

Cutting potatoes: little fat round.
Steam rises to engulf me and stings my eyes.
Silently, I delight in the success of this small task.
I am learning to be
housewife, mother – or independent woman.

Lulled by the hiss of oil seeping onto the pan,
I hear men talking through the wall:
protests. Voices high and loud.
Fat spits at me, crackling disgustedly,
and I feel the tension rise.

You thought I burned to
be held high in your distinction.
Did you know I wanted you to burn also?
I lower the heat, fingers stuttering around the fat knob,
like the conversation I am overhearing.

One day, one day where doors will
blow back in my face, no one
holding them open for me,
I will walk into that room and confront that discussion.
But for now, I am silent.

And ambitious,
so here I am cooking.

A/N: I am so obsessed with Victoria Chang these days. She makes my poetry so matter-of-fact.