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Pork Sausages
I am not yet tall-table high.
Mum turns up the blue flames,
lowers the thick sausages,
dripping crackles,
the iron skillet is licked fat.
The meat finds its voice,
a splutter of buttery smaze,
the pork is in bloom,
the animal inside the flesh
disappearing,
the meat opening florets of aroma.
A drool forcing sizzle,
makes wet lips chew air.
Mother turns, cheeks flushed,
not looking at me.
Say’s
“He will love these.”
A flash in the pan,
a gutted put-down,
and me
too low to see over myself.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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