From the Fishouse

Halve the heart—

Set the meat aside
In slivers

From the fatty part
That loves him.

Mother,
You’ve always been good

About whipping something up
From nothing.

Even memory,
The bits skewered,

Speech sifting, words measured
By the quarter cup.

Give it time, Son.
Low heat. Slow cook.

Even when I thought
He might kill you.

Even after he changed
The locks.

I don’t want to hear
How it might have ended.

Let’s strain the blood from gristle.
Let’s crack the window—

And leave the scraps for the dog.