the day my husband beat me,
she puts down the eggs and tarragon wrapped in lavash,
mixed with salt as regretful as tears,
and pepper as passionate as life.
we were told to be good all our lives,
she has brought out the tea, the cheese.
spread the butter.
she will pour your cup full, add sugar,
tell you to sit out of the sun,
trying to appeal to her husband's taste for russian
more delicate women,
women less raw and wild than herself.