Over the table

Where the stove and holes are
that breathe the outside in
I sat by my aunt and her notebook
of lottery numbers. Then I could not
fathom how a mind gives up,
nor, though known, fathom the smell
of sausage and alcohol on my grandmother
and her hand as she beat her genes out.
How clutter grew like the 18th century
man of the house eating the house down.
How snow and pollen blew onto the pan
when we froze, when we froze in sweat
and cooked onto the meat titrated
from flavor to carbon to alcohol.
It is by luck a child enjoys things
first, when reflection is a lonely bathroom,
never the mind—it is by luck.


~ by Jeremy on January 20, 2011.

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