November 2024
Sylvia Cavanaugh
cavanaughpoet@gmail.com
cavanaughpoet@gmail.com
Bio Note: After retiring as a high school teacher last June, I moved to my hometown of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, which has spawned poems set in the geography of this city. Since the food-based holiday of Thanksgiving is approaching, I thought I would explore how food can feel intertwined in relationships in complicated ways.
Minute Rice and Salisbury Steak
Dad moved out the mother announced as she pulled the box of minute rice down from the cupboard which now held only disposable salt and pepper shakers. It’s going to be a relief, really, not to have him around but he’s coming back for supper. The mother filled a saucepan with water from the faucet that dripped all night. So, you can feel like things are still normal. The daughter reached into the freezer for the last package of Swanson’s Salisbury steak, her stomach growling. She threw the cardboard packaging away and centered the frozen brown brick in the oven. Crossing her arms and squeezing them to her ribs, the daughter asked, When are you going to the store? There’s nothing around here to eat, remembering the time mom didn’t come home and dad took her to Bonanza Steak House where they sat in silence eating for hours like ravenous ranch hands.
©2024 Sylvia Cavanaugh
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