Meat
She turns up the blue flames,
lowers the chops.
Dripping crackles, iron is fat licked -
grease on her fingers.
The meat finds its voice,
splutters of buttery smaze.
The pork is in bloom.
The animal inside the flesh
disappearing.
The meat opening
florets of aroma.
My stomach is cramping,
not with anticipation,
but with an acidic hopelessness.
Mother turns from the gas burner;
splattered apron - flushed cheeks.
She smiles, not looking at me,
but seeing a man
who will be home soon.
“He will love these.”
I pretend not to hear, but wonder
if there will be milk with
my cornflakes.
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