Steam Tree

She peg legs over the tiles
on tip toe, with a pan
of water for the stove,
ballerina, spatula in hand,
cherry tomato up her nose,
bullies the sizzling courgettes
lashing them with olive oil
and sweet balsamic, that rises
from the carmel onions
like a steam tree of sugar.
Broccoli tumble lightly
from the basket of her hands
and land as asteroids
in the hot potato jungle
in a rain of golden
withering chlorophyll
anticipating the mother belly,
sparkling light of hunger.
She is there, salt shaker
a black machine in hand,
clutching a sheath of noodles
with which she javelins
the supersalivating pan,
and then boiling over
she collapses on the counter,
head on her folded arms
a cauliflower of coffee.
She's a fallen sparrow
in the cucumber mountains
among the grains.