Take your Rings off
back seat of my mothers sedan, arm draped around a turkey.
a dead one. no head, no feet, no signature double chin that defines a turkey as such.
a beakless wonder, that smushes and ozzes between my thumb and its plastic parka.
i whomp my palm against it's breast in time with 'pretty woman.'
the sound hitting the air like a wet towel against tiled floor.
i bet she was a damn foxy bird. she had the jowls to make all the other chicklets jealous. her refined beak of purplish indigo that made the rest whisper, "do you think she's had work done?" and "i heard she's part quail." her tufted peach fuzz atop her head looked regal in the summer sun against the younger birds stubble. she flirted with the farm hands, unfolding her dazzling swan white feathers only for Charley.
i saw his mother while i leaned over the freezer full of them. i reached for her, the 19 pound stunner of a bird, my ass on display for all of stop-n-shop. "well hello there!"
the Barbara Streisand daggers clawing across the mass grave of turkeys. What was she doing in the frozen meat section? her husband was a granola man, it was faux turkey for the fitzpatricks. she was fondling my bird, "so lovely to see you out" her mouth forming words heavy with Italian jersey vowels that screamed, "i married the Irishman" and "you were a damn fool to leave my son."
smiling i scooped up my bird and balanced the beast on a propped up knee. she seemed to unhinge her brown lip lined mouth to speak again but i felt desire from the dinde in my arms. desire to escape the mass graves of turkeys and relationships and boyfriends moms.
"happy Thanksgiving" i snapped, shuttling towards the check out line.
unpacking the rest of the holiday riff and uncorking a bottle of red. curling up to a new book while an apple pie backed in the oven. the bird perched in the sink, her legs peaking out just beyond the lip. singing dean martin to her all the while.
"take your rings off" my mother warns me while i watch her pry the legs open and nod towards the cavern ripe with indecency. i reach into the abyss that is damp and barren except for the bagged guts. vacuum sealed. such order to her ending. i can almost hear her cluck to me reassuringly, "it's ok, where i'm going is someplace warm, i'm moving on"
tossing her heart into the tall trash can below the sink i whisper "me too...me too"
...
a dead one. no head, no feet, no signature double chin that defines a turkey as such.
a beakless wonder, that smushes and ozzes between my thumb and its plastic parka.
i whomp my palm against it's breast in time with 'pretty woman.'
the sound hitting the air like a wet towel against tiled floor.
i bet she was a damn foxy bird. she had the jowls to make all the other chicklets jealous. her refined beak of purplish indigo that made the rest whisper, "do you think she's had work done?" and "i heard she's part quail." her tufted peach fuzz atop her head looked regal in the summer sun against the younger birds stubble. she flirted with the farm hands, unfolding her dazzling swan white feathers only for Charley.
i saw his mother while i leaned over the freezer full of them. i reached for her, the 19 pound stunner of a bird, my ass on display for all of stop-n-shop. "well hello there!"
the Barbara Streisand daggers clawing across the mass grave of turkeys. What was she doing in the frozen meat section? her husband was a granola man, it was faux turkey for the fitzpatricks. she was fondling my bird, "so lovely to see you out" her mouth forming words heavy with Italian jersey vowels that screamed, "i married the Irishman" and "you were a damn fool to leave my son."
smiling i scooped up my bird and balanced the beast on a propped up knee. she seemed to unhinge her brown lip lined mouth to speak again but i felt desire from the dinde in my arms. desire to escape the mass graves of turkeys and relationships and boyfriends moms.
"happy Thanksgiving" i snapped, shuttling towards the check out line.
unpacking the rest of the holiday riff and uncorking a bottle of red. curling up to a new book while an apple pie backed in the oven. the bird perched in the sink, her legs peaking out just beyond the lip. singing dean martin to her all the while.
"take your rings off" my mother warns me while i watch her pry the legs open and nod towards the cavern ripe with indecency. i reach into the abyss that is damp and barren except for the bagged guts. vacuum sealed. such order to her ending. i can almost hear her cluck to me reassuringly, "it's ok, where i'm going is someplace warm, i'm moving on"
tossing her heart into the tall trash can below the sink i whisper "me too...me too"
...
Labels: free verse, prose poem
posted by Bridget @ 6:14 PM
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