The Bad Cook (Poem)

The Bad Cook

She tried to
measure

carefully, broke
the last wish

bone cleanly
in two, even

kept the stuffing
from erupting

between the legs,
trussed-up,

the heart secure
inside. Knowing

she was no cavity
of emptiness, she

weighed the his
and hers proportions —

of salt to pepper,
rosemary to thyme,

garlic to red wine
vinegar — thinking

to let red juices run
a bit before dipping

and raising
the silver spoon

full of drippings,
coating the body,

glistening
and tender before

his serrated knife
and three-tined fork

could cut into
the too-common

pattern of tasting,
then seasoning

more. She watched
fate's slender finger

point as caress
of mouth on skin

barely managed
what the nose

already knew:
the garnish never

enough to mask
the stench of toast

burnt black for
morning's repast;

she, no longer
loving and wanting

out, recalling again
how silence

always follows
the hissing maple

honey bacon frying
in the pan she

stirred his eggs too
easy. Over words,

repeated daily
like an incantation,

often enough
to not be

heard, she
simmered long,

a turned down
flame, dismissing

what was needed
to apply more heat.

© 2011 Maureen E. Doallas