Evening meal

SALTY soup boils on our gas-fired stove, a hock of pork a
SLOOP on a broiling potato sea. The kitchen’s face is
STEAMing. My sweating mother sees me, stops me,
TRUSSes my arms to my side: “I know your taste buds’re itchin.’”

Home alone

HEAVY-handed Frederick in his wife’s
FRILLy apron loads the dishes in the
FALSE-fronted dishwasher, sets the
CYCLE as he wishes. The water swishes.