P w/ Q, part 2 :D

My Mother's Kitchen

A kettle whistle's cries
resounds off dull, black tiling.
Heavy curtains diffuse dusk
to recesses of the empty room.
He will not hear the kettle crying.
Here, untouched pots and pans hang
like unsought dreams
shining brilliantly in the faint light.
They hang above the kettle
where the steam forms wet droplets
like tears dampening polished, cold metals.
The kettle is my mother.
It is in my father’s house.