Originally published by The Literary Yard
The raw chicken
in the frying pan
pulpy, thick, sinewy
sheared apart with scissors,
olive oil
haphazardly
drizzled,
burner unlit,
your thin tremulous hands,
racked with sunspots
and varicose veins,
lightly touched your lip.
“How long has this been sitting here, Ma?”
This horror
started so quietly,
an unlit flame.
Is the unlit burner
a joke, perhaps?
The Devil always speaks
of flames.
Why not light
memory afire
with nothing?
There are times I think
you should burn
in this nothingness
Mother
like the Devil would have it.
Your vicious sneer at cocktail hour.
The crack and thunder of your rage.
The artillery of hands on my body.
Did you forget that too?
There are times,
however,
I would bathe you
in the light
of nothingness.
After all,
we made
Viennese cookies
topped with
luxuriant
carmine jam
once.
And yesterday,
we giggled
when you forgot
what a milkshake was.
So, which nothingness
shall we choose for us?
There should be only
one nothing
for us.
Perhaps,
the space
within
a glazed ceramic vase?
Let’s call it
love.
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Welcome to the live read of "Down Chuska Mountain" by Jeffrey Delano Davis. The reading will take approximately 35… https://t.co/htJqfb19gH