Aryaa Rajouria | March 8, 2019

The kitchen is a silent civil war zone
Bound by wedding rings
That clank with pots and pans
And hiss in the fryer.

Two women.

One with too much heart,
The other with too much time.
The first blinks back tears, locking them behind eyelash-prisons,
The traitor convicts escape into the pot of vegetables
Which is now too salty.

A bitter silence.

The second is an uncoiling snake with a sizzling tongue,
Vomiting venomous verbs under her breath,
Stabbing the spicy chicken curry over and over.
The pieces of meat are now too small.

When the meal is served
The dishes are tinged with swollen claw marks and red war paint.
With downcast eyes
The minced meat is chewed and swallowed.

Everybody knows.
Nobody says a word.

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