she’d serve skinny strips of bacon
sweating grease in a styrofoam pan
to first-grade me as an afterschool snack

sometimes flaccid, like silicone
with bubbly boils. other times
like charred china you’d be too
afraid to handle lest its brittle
break, crumble into twenty-odd shards
but always cold, left over from lunch

her voice would tremble, crackle low
but i don’t recall a thing she said