And This Would Be Why Each Issue of Prevention Gets Promptly Shredded Into Rabbit-Cage Liner As Soon As It Shows Up In Our Mailbox

by Peg Duthie

 

Aunt June's in our kitchen, stuffing five trays
of hollowed-out tomatoes with her blue-ribbon filling --
well-drained tunafish, chives, and cream cheese --
and it's set off Cousin Meredith,
who's been hounding the rest of us past death
ever since she was old enough to read
about the haplessness of dolphins, although her brother Steve
says their violent aversion to all things approximating sandwiches
has more to do with being put off mayonnaise for life
after the unfortunate episode of the teal-colored deviled eggs.

That's as may be, but it still doesn't tell us
how to dodge Miss Meredith's parlor-chair diagnoses
in which our pollen-sparked migraines are merely
another symptom of long-term contamination.
And yet if she'd only trouble herself to ask,
she'd at least find out that the funny tang she's tasted
in the pasta salads and the jars of fairgrounds chutney
has more to do with the champion poodle's ashes
being run through Aunt June's blender
with the rest of her receipt for seasoned salt.

 

© 2005 Peg Duthie

Peg Duthie was born in Lubbock, raised in Berea (Kentucky), and lives in Nashville. Her poems have appeared at the No Tell Motel, on The Pedestal, and elsewhere. She has a marked fondness for straight whiskey and twisty madrigals.