poem in which a woman's life story is told

not for thirty years has the barbecue hotplate been washed

nor has the chorus of plush toy elephants

and monkeys and bears and lambs watching her from the top

of the wooden playhouse – under the roof her dad built

as she burns the new man’s dinner.

mistletoe squares on the patchwork pelts are almost opaque now

mud-frosted – red pompom on the monkey’s toque reduced

to its last four tassels – his red lips kissed from puckered to concave

his sad eyes hanging by a few ancient threads – lamb a foundling

aged by an infanthood of hardship, a torn blue ribbon

held by too many well-meaning little hands

touch, no matter how delicate, is all ruinous in the end

that’s how she feels with this overpriced spatula

with all eyes except his eyes glued to her –

where is he? inside? out of the stifling evening air

and earshot of her curses – writing in that mangled diary, maybe.

she turns the patties over – half don’t turn – she curses –

they say three decades of pent-up flavour

is imparted like memories on everything that’s cooked

on those deeper than usual, heavy cast iron ribs

they say time is picked up by the palate more than anything –

she tastes rain, smells it – a bouquet that urges her

to close the hood and smoke that mess ‘til ready –

fiddle the screen door back onto its mucked-up track

take ketchup, mustard and sweet relish from the fridge

put them on the table – take the brocade seat cushions

from the den – out after dark alone and they’d be stolen –

a bread bag with nothing left but two crusts and a slice

plates and glasses and two cans of low-cal iced green tea

turn off the gas the way her father used to

when the house was his and that chorus of toys was hers

when her mother was still alive –

scrape off what’s left of the burgers, feel for the first raindrops

open the umbrella, its white and green candy stripes

almost too bright to look at without squinting

sit down, think fleetingly of her body in French lingerie

her body smoother than it is or will ever be again

wait for him to return from wherever’s he’s gone

nibble at the food, imagine scoffing it all as he watches

sit back as if the world’s gravity has just quadrupled – wait.