Friday, January 20, 2012

kitchen queen

my father told me to not look at the door for an answer
the day my husband beat me, 
told me to find myself a corner in the house
and cry.

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,
and what about us was not good?

she has brought out the tea, the cheese. 
she will cut it for you, place it on your bread,
spread the butter.

she will pour your cup full, add sugar,
tell you to sit out of the sun, 
ask if you need the heat on, 
if she can give you a sweater.

we acted like fools and were treated like fools,
who wouldn’t want a wife like that?

she recently dyed her hair completely blonde,
trying to appeal to her husband's taste for russian
more delicate women,
women less raw and wild than herself. 

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