An Act of Preservation
These days it’s hard to tell
What’s real or imagined.
The nightmares flicker like the light
Above the kitchen table.
One minute, I see a morning spread
Of toast and jam and my hunger
Rises like the sun. But then, shadows shift
And I see again the irremovable stains
Of bone and viscera, body after body
Gutted and bloody, the livers set aside,
The other organs stuffed into jars
For preservation. It’ll be a long winter,
Girls, mama used to say to me
And my sister. Best stock up
On all the essentials.
I put my hand inside
The cupboard and pull out
A glass. It’s never too early
For a Bloody Mary. It’s a recipe
Passed down through the generations,
One that never fails to reinvigorate me
After a long week full of stress and self-
Doubt. My sister prefers liver and onions
But I could never get over the smell.
Either way, once the drink is mixed,
I take out a toothpick and a jar
From the fridge, a little collection of
Pickled eyeballs. Blue, I find,
Has the best crunch. One thing I’ve learned,
Over the years, dear daughter, is that no matter what
You make…
