Morning Meals by Tess Satsuma

Morning Meals

by Tess Satsuma

 

When you wake up,
breasts covered          in cotton
by Batman’s head,
your son dreaming     blank walls         
in his room,

I mix oatmeal, margarine,
         (the milk your child does not drink),
into a metal bowl, my blurred face
         softening
beneath my working palms.

I wait for you to watch me
bake this breakfast for you both;

I wait for you to see my nightgown
glow against my body somehow,
before you
             turn the news on,
before you
             turn my skin beneath the silk,
into the restless         spell     
I have become.

As your son enters,
his hair a golden       pause        
of youth beneath the skylight above him,

I clench my thumb against the bowl.
I watch him play, a twelve-year-old,
              with his own saliva as if it were a     lake     
              pouring
                            from his mouth.

You went to his room again last night after his
sixth scream.

My hands were alive then; they were so
             alive;

how they combed through
the smothering current of     your absence; how they
met the envelope of your      sealed weight,
closed tight around               the body            of your only boy.