August 2022
Bio Note: Born and adopted with a deaf twin sister in Luxembourg, I grew up in a military family in Europe and the U.S. I am an author and artist now living in Vermont, and wrote Seeing Voices: Poetry in Motion about my childhood experiences related to twinhood and deafness. Unrelated poetry is forthcoming in Rattle and Eunoia Review. I love to frequent diners in my county, and usually order an all-day breakfast special and, of course, a slice of the homemade pie.
Hold the Gravy
you say to the buxom, auburn-haired waitress wearing plum frosted lipstick when you order the turkey special with mashed potatoes from the menu at Bobbie-Jo’s Diner on Sunset Bay Road. We seek wounding in the places we most need to heal, you tell me as though you are my therapist, and check the reflection of your piercing green eyes and chiseled jaw in the window beside you. Order anything you want, Hot Stuff, you say as you drum your manicured fingers in tune to Survivor’s “Is This Love” playing in the background: I've tread those mean streets Blind alleys where the currency of love changes hands. After you drop your clean fork for the waitress to pick up in front of you, you brush its back gently against your white starched sleeve and promptly stab your slab of cold turkey that doesn’t need it because it is paper thin and dry. This meat is overdone, you say with your mouth full and cranberry sauce tucked in the corner of your lip. It’s definitely not worth the price, you grumble wiping your lop-sided frown with your handkerchief and eyeing the fit blond with the bob cut over my shoulder. You missed a spot, I say, tossing you my used napkin. Next time, pay for the gravy, I tell you. I wave to Frosted Lips. Separate checks, I say over the drummer’s solo.
Originally published in Moss Piglet.
©2022 Kelly Sargent
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