Lisa Martinović

My Father's Stew

In this dream
my father is young and handsome
and lonely as a man
who long ago lost his bearings
in the wilderness

I tend to him
cook him a nice meal in my kitchen
fresh greens
whole grains
a hearty stock

he grabs me from behind
the stove as I cook he fondles me
up and down the whole
of my torso
I warm and rise like bread
to his touch I am

I tell myself we are both
adults, now
I know this is a lie

Stirring the soup
I watch carefully to make sure nothing
boils over
douses my flame
leaves a dark, ragged stain
on my apron

Pulling away is  hard
as tearing flesh from the bones
of uncooked meat.  I will not be
his supper



(photo by Celise Varnedore)