Graphic by Jess Underwood
she ties a bow in her smock
and throws the meat in the
green and
white
cracked porcelain sink
bastes stock into the envelope of guts
hoping they dont all spill out
and reveal her secrets
the kids gargle
sparkling grape juice
she can’t help
but carry them everywhere
she will serve it to her
husband and children
but is thinking about some
(one)
thing
else
her lover
whispers
on the phone late
at night
a paranoid walking
over
to the oven
in the marital home
hoping her daughter doesn’t
follow
in her footsteps
but she trips over the
root memory
being ogled
by men with whiskey
on their breath
(who
raid the kitchen
of woman’s bodies)
The husband chews the fat
she smokes to
try and forget
what her own mother
taught her about love