|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
Delicious steam leaps out of the two plates
of rice before you and your mother.
The usual toothsome prayer
of appreciation lacks a man’s voice.
As she stabs the rice’s belly
with a fork, you could hear anger clinking
on the plate, and somehow, you know
the only empty chair on the dining
set has broken your mother’s
heart. Out of an abundance
of lies some truths are born: the last
time your mother told a story,
it was at the dining table,
and the sweet story ended
on her fluttering cheek,
because the protagonist was sitting
on that empty chair—dipping
a fork, hung with chicken’s
flesh into your mother’s mouth.
About D.M. Aderibigbe