I learned how to cut up a raw chicken 27 years ago by watching Martha Stewart on TV.
I spread waxed paper on the table and grabbed a kitchen knife,
The wrong kind, of course.
How was I to know the difference between a butcher knife, a paring knife, a steak knife, or any other kind of knife?
I watched Martha gracefully slice through the chicken,
Cutting easily through the bones
Without even getting any on her blouse.
I was a mess,
Hacking through the fowl thing like an untrained laborer cutting a log with a dull saw,
Chicken blood and muck spread all over me.
After the show was over and Martha declared her chicken a “good thing,”
My chicken didn’t look like her chicken.
My coffee table didn’t look like her kitchen counter.
And I didn’t look like Martha.
Then I cooked the chicken and cleaned up my mess.
I put on clean clothes and makeup and did my hair.
When my husband came home I served him the chicken,
And he loved it.
I felt like Martha Stewart.
Waiting for the annual tree disposal pick up.
Such a nice service for the community,
Saving us all a trip to the dump.
Standing on my curb I look down the street
At the dead, fallen forest.
What a sad ending to a season of home and joy.
We all move on, throwing out our hope with the trash.
My Magic Body
Aging, aching, limping, lumpy
My body speaks to me loudy
As I begin the sixth decade of my life
The mirror isn’t my friend
It’s more of an emotionless reminder
That life is constant change
And my body is my body
Regardless of how I feel about it
When I try to walkmy body feels
Heavy, resistant, unforgiving
But in the arms of a lover my body is
Perfect, sexy, powerful