Erasing The History Of My Oven

By John Dorroh

I climbed into the oven to get a better look,

to erase history with a brillo pad and some elbow grease.

 

The first mountain was pitch black and starless,

a horrible crust from cheese that leaked from a Mexican

casserole last July on the hottest day of the year.

It was a stubborn crust, and offended someone who said

it reminded her of her grandma’s skin after the burns

she sustained from a  barn fire. The mountain

had to be scrubbed away, removed.

 

Another topographical feature six inches to the left,

an ash-gray lesion from the steak that jumped out of the skillet

onto the element, causing a bit of a fire which was contained,

thank God. The element insisted that the souvenir had to go,

to be removed, that life could not go on until it was done.

It was blasphemy.

 

An isolated scar, maybe one 16th of an inch deep, ran along the interior

of the bottom of the stove, a minor disfiguration, cosmetic at best.

The oven bulb told me that it had to be filled with a special putty

and recast, or it would refuse to shed light into the dark recesses

of the appliance ever again.

 

I remained inside the oven until I was done. It looked brand new,

spotless, and way too shiny for an oven that ever baked or broiled

anything tasty. Its history had been erased, those horrible scars

that will never leak their vile pus again.