Alice Walker summoned
The kitchen erotica, sent us
Scurrying to cabinets for olive oil
To lubricate skin, scabs and scars.
My doctors erased mine with careful
Cuts and tucks like hospital corners,
skin kissing skin, hurts hidden.

In our kitchen, my husband
Slices into chicken, removes skin,
Cuts careful one-inch cubes. I do not
Handle raw meat. I slice cooked
Sausage at an angle, toss in olive oil
That splatters the thin skin
of my wrist. I tuck my hands
into fists. I do not own an apron.

My brother wore an apron. It read:
A Wolf in Chef’s Clothing.
He made spaghetti for Dad and me
On Sundays after church. He browned
Meat from the half-cow in our freezer.
It was his specialty, as were his biting
words that stung but left no marks.