Lisa
Martinović
My
Father's Stew
In this dream
my father is young and handsome
and lonely as a man
who long ago lost his bearings
in the wilderness
I tend to him
cook him a nice meal in my kitchen
fresh greens
whole grains
a hearty stock
he grabs me from behind
the stove as I cook he fondles me
up and down the whole
of my torso
I warm and rise like bread
to his touch I am
tempted
I tell myself we are both
adults, now
I know this is a lie
Stirring the soup
I watch carefully to make sure nothing
boils over
douses my flame
leaves a dark, ragged stain
on my apron
Pulling away is hard
as tearing flesh from the bones
of uncooked meat. I will not be
his supper
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(photo by Celise Varnedore) |