By: Jeffrey Delano Davis

The raw chicken
in the frying pan
pulpy, thick, sinuous
sheared apart with scissors
olive oil
haphazardly
drizzled,

burner unlit,

your thin tremulous hands
racked with sunspots
and varicose veins
lightly touched your lip.

“How long has this been sitting here, Ma?”

This horror
started so quietly,

an unlit flame.

Is the unlit burner
a joke, perhaps?
The Devil always speaks
of flames.

Why not light
memory afire
with nothing?

There are times I think
you should burn
in this nothingness
Mother,
like the Devil would have it.

Your vicious sneer at cocktail hour.
The crack and thunder of your rage.
The artillery of hands on my body.
Did you forget that too?

There are times,
however,
I would bathe you
in the light
of nothingness.

After all,

we made
Viennese cookies
topped with
luxuriant
carmine jam

once.

And yesterday
we giggled
when you forgot
what a milkshake was.

So, which nothingness
shall we choose for us?

There should be only
one nothing
for us.

Perhaps,
the space
within
a glazed, ceramic vase
let’s call it
love.