Family Recipes

Family Recipes

One day, the blame—like a cur—slinks
away, ashamed of its own

self. You have yelled the same,
and worse, heard

the words in multiple voices:
your parents’—

your own. You slid into financial
ruin deeper than

the farm-busted sink that was
your home. You

forgive each unforgiven privation—
the mother’s breast

turned cold by men who touched
her tits, and

shouldn’t’ve, the father’s tractable
compliance sealed

like a Mason Jar by the cooling
vacuum of his

father’s early parting. You throw out
the batch of grief,

start with what fresh flour, soda,
shortening, and salt

you can, fold and pat down, watch
the cast-iron pan

while new biscuits take shape,
rise and brown.


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