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Dove Meat
My mother-in-law drops pasta
into salted steam, cries in Italian
“Why do you do this to me?”
I add bitters, more cherry juice
to her vermouth and whiskey
the way she likes her manhattans
the way she taught me to like them
I like them, I like her
I don’t like her son anymore.
She talks about the dove meat
in this special Adriatic gravy
the last one warbled “I’m sorry”
and she said “I don’t mean it”
going ahead, slicing its throat
so the blood spurted cleanly.
She calls her husband, pauses sadly
calls mine, gestures to the bottle, to me
wants me to pour the garnet-flushed wine
wants to shame our marriage back together
I do not pour, instead I quietly spoon sauce
over the pasta where between red clots
eyes of small birds blink up at me.
It’s over, there are no more options
dinner is served, the men enter
sit down, ignore the flashing red lights
the empty wine glasses, my screaming silence.
It is time for dinner. We eat.
First published in
Williwaw in 1987 and in Cube 1989.
Return to Volume 1.3
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