|Jul/Aug 2011 Poetry|
Photo by David Graham
Everything that Rises Must Diverge
For breakfast, powdered milk and puffed rice.
Come lunch, Mom microwaved an egg
and you spent time bouncing it on the table.
Dinner was at six: boxed Mac & Cheese.
No one bothered to spruce it up with lobster.
Later you went to bed hungry, stomach howling
like a wolf trapped inside. It was like a pet,
the dog you always wanted curled up at your feet.
Still, it howled all night, and there was no way
to pick it up and throw it out of the room.
You turned onto your back, side, other side.
Nothing worked. The groaning stayed until
all that was left was to pillow your face
and listen to the sea foam sound of silence.
In the morning there was stale bread for toast
and tea that had already colored three cups.
For lunch, liverwurst that had turned to fuzz.
Before you ate it you had to shave it.
Then for dinner, more boxed Mac & Cheese.
It wasn't all that bad until you grew up
and watched your kid, hand stroking
her pet cat, eating her medium rare filet.