When the swollen rat scuttled past my feet,

fat dripped from his mouth like cold bacon grease

Because we are made of soft pillow skin

 

filled with goose feathers and dead puppy fat,

waiting on our husband to return home

with a lace thong hidden in his dashboard

 

That secret she took to her pink casket

nails cherry red the way he always liked,

fingers pruned with decades of dishwashing

 

When I burst through the door to find Momma,

she said that was just the circle of life, 

rats bloated with yellow fat and lost time

 

And from the back pew of the Baptist church,

I whispered to myself the very same

 

 

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