I have his pliers,
hack saw,
ruler, sledge,
the tools my father
taught me to maintain.
and which to pick to cinch,
or torque, or plane
and when to grab a chisel
for a wedge
I have her grater,
pitter,
rolling pin,
utensils mother
used for every need,
She said
'You picked the right one,
then proceed
to whisk, or slice,
or chop, or strain, or skin.”
They were so skilled.
Each gesture was concise.
They often said 'You can't...'
How I'd resent it,
chided 'hasty, lazy, ignorant.'
I learned to spot the cheap,
the imprecise.
Just so you can't rely
on what you've heard.
You have to think and
pick the proper word.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem