Kitchen poetry was a phrase I heard in some class, 
I don’t remember which. 
It meant the kind of unimportant poetry
that women write
about their unimportant lives
(it was introduced as an outmoded
and sexist term, of course). 

I loved the phrase as soon as I heard it,
googled it when I got home from class
but nothing came up,
just cooking blogs and writing blogs.

I’m googling it again now, still nothing.
Maybe I learned about it in Eastern European Lit
so I translate it to Polish, search poezja kuchenna,
still can’t find it. 

What I do find, eventually, is an essay by Paule Marshall
about the poetry of women’s kitchen talk:
the gossip, rants, political analysis and counseling
she grew up overhearing in the kitchen.
About how kitchen conversations
have the power to let you feel
some measure of control over your life. 

What I learned in grad school I learned in kitchens.
We cooked for each other, took care of each other.
We wrote hundreds of collaborative poems together
late at night, drinking wine.
I think those poems saved my life. 

I mean, we couldn’t even let ourselves think
about what was going on
but our collaborative practice brought our minds together
and I felt their blood flow through me
when we finished each other’s sentences, then folded
the paper over and passed to the right. 

I don’t remember whose idea it was
the collaborative poem thing
but we did it for two years, in one kitchen or another
or sitting on the floor of someone’s studio apartment. 

It was the only good thing about grad school
but it was so good, it was almost worth it.

We ate dinner and then we started writing.
Folded the page to reveal only the last line
and let the next person pick up
the half-formed thought
and make it whole. 

We published a book of our collaborations,
sewed it ourselves, screen printed the covers.
CAConrad reviewed it in all caps, writing:
WHATEVER MAGIC
IS MAKING THIS HAPPEN WITH THESE POETS,
LET IT NEVER FUCKING END, PLEASE! 

I hold the word magic in my mouth,
it feels slippery, like a lozenge that’s almost dissolved.

What made us bind ourselves together so tightly,
bind our voices into one voice?
Would we have sought refuge in collaboration
if school wasn’t so alienating? 

Conrad is right, it was magic
but what caused the magic
was our oppression
and our desperation
to make a life outside it.

Amy Berkowitz is the author of Gravitas (Éditions du Noroît / Total Joy, 2023) and Tender Points (Nightboat Books, 2019). Her writing and conversations have appeared in publications including Bitch, The Believer, BOMB, and Jewish Currents. Her work has received support from the Anderson Center at Tower View, This Will Take Time, Small Press Traffic, and the Kimmel Harding Nelson Center for the Arts. She lives in San Francisco, where she’s working on a novel and a nonfiction project. More at amyberko.com.

Artemisia Gentileschi (1593-1653) was born in Rome and lived most of her life in Naples. She apprenticed under her father, the artist Orazio Gentileschi, whose influence is particularly evident in her early works. By 1630 she had settled in Naples and established her own studio. She was one of the city’s most important artists and strongly influencing the Neapolitan art scene.