Friday, October 16, 2015

Creme Brulee Scraped From the Inside of the Microwave

the widow slipped her bony fingers
into a mismatched pair of oven mitts
and pulled the pan from the rack,
resting it on the open door of the stove
she cut the chicken with a dull pair
of pruning shears, and slapped
the rough chunks onto a platter
drizzled the beige rice with watery broth
dredged from the bottom of the pan
with a bent spoon
In place of vegetables, a weedy salad
swimming in oil and vinegar.
Watched as I chewed, her small eyes
wild with mascara,
sunken in their bony sockets.
I poured myself more of the wine I'd brought
which she said she couldn't drink
because of her condition
and told her the meal was delicious
as I imagined bending her over the sink,
pulling up her black dress as she gasped
and begged me to stop
to at least wait until she'd nuked the dessert

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