would stand on the metal
chair
and take a butter knife
to the sides of the icebox,
keeping the door
open, to allow it to melt
and drip onto the towel
she laid on the floor.
it looked like
the north pole in there.
her hands
would be raw and red,
as she pummeled
the ice, inches thick.
tossing out
boxes of frozen peas
and spinach which we
hated.
i think she liked doing
it. it took her mind off
my father who was out
drinking and carousing
with some floozy at the club.
1 comment:
It has the makings of a narrative poem. What happens next?
Later he will return home, lipstick inevitably
smeared on his collar, his eyes bleary with drink,
my mother in a rage
still
hair wild
fury thick in the dark
And then. . .
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