(a contemplation of the word "Kummerspeck")
I wrap my grief in bacon, gooey
and impermeable. Dusted with almond flour,
sugar and salt. What choice
did I have, losing you so close
to Thanksgiving? We ate
your memory in a flaky crust.
Cider turned to vinegar in our mouths.
My siblings, Dad, your partner's family
gathered for a meal, memorial. Poured gravy
over the things we could not say. On
Thanksgiving, you do not
assign blame (except perhaps
under your breath, secreted
in the kitchen, shoving a
tasteless morsel into your mouth,
to keep the words down). If only
that had ended it. But a year
of gnoshing and teeth-gnashing
would follow. A sour residue
of your sudden passing, Mom.
Nothing I ate could fill
the hole you left behind. And now
a smidge past the anniversary, I
emerge from the trough. Once caked
with salt, I feel my encasement
crack. Leaving behind me
a path strewn with crumbs.
- January 1, 2017