Batching
for Jeanette
The price of
being alone.
The littlest
saucepan is getting
a work over.
I cook with it,
wash it, and
use it for
the next
meal. Then the one
after. I’ll
burn its handles down
to an image
of you. My surgeon
practises
with the spaghetti scoop,
sauce like
laughter from his smile.
He turns a
few pages of skin
and the
cauliflower curls up in disgust.
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