Sabor de la Muerte by Misti Rainwater-Lites
God grants me a macabre bakery
I never asked for.
I get unlimited free samples,
tiny tastes of death
to prepare me
for the grand finale.
Like last Mother’s Day,
packing all my shit in Wal-Mart bags
once again as the only man
I’ve ever loved to exhaustion
sat at his table eating breakfast
watching examples of acceptable mothers
on the television I gave him.
Then sitting through a man in a wheelchair
playing “She’s Got A Way About Her” on the church piano
as my six-year old son clung to me,
knowing I’d leave him again soon
because Mommy is a vagabond witch
without a magical pillow.
At my mother’s ranch I am given a sea of salt
for each wound
more nails for my cross
just in case I was thinking
I drown each day in the particulars.
I fucked up here I fucked up there
but there’s no time to consider the considerable
error of my ways
because there’s a redneck for Jesus on my ass
and I’m late for Disenfranchised Bitch 101
at the welfare bingo beauty parlor
across from the trailer park
I keep returning to
resplendent in last night’s vomit.
Someday I’ll really be fucking dead
and I’ll fucking know it.
My phone will start ringing
and it will be Daddy.
“It was all a joke, baby girl. You are truly loved.”