poetry

Dinner with the folks.

food pot kitchen cooking

My mother simmers oxtails
and hollers like a kettle—
high blood pressure and anxiety,
nothing is ever good enough,
she fans herself with a dish cloth
while she squawks about ingrates
and too much gristle.

Beneath brown eaves
my father smokes in silence,
he watches moss grow over a stone.

© Nancy Botta, 2018

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