"Feast of Disappointments"
I have come to the potatoes,
paring them down swiftly,
chanting your sins to the sink
until I hold another offering,
haphazard orbs the color of old eggs
and I choke on the smell of mud.
A room away you snore,
clutching at visions,
dreaming of butter,
gravy and youth.
I have seen your belly rise, fall,
still aching for round things;
sweet breast of melon,
pickled cucumbers biting
your sun broken lips,
the rain taste of green grapes;
ever a man of appetites.
In the fields, you confessed,
pulled up my skirt
with no concern
for the fallow years.
Now we are about potatoes;
the ticktock of consuming
roots in silence,
ignoring the pull of the scythe.
During those blind years
we knew nothing of wasted nights,
two beds, pressed against separate walls.
I boil Canaan with turnips,
served up on wedding plates.
© 2008 Linda Cable
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