Tusks

Her apron hangs on the kitchen hook—

the butcher hands pulp-stamped

on bulky pockets  Black hairnet

Marlboro Reds like skinny missiles

the key to the stationwagon

slapped beside the burner

where the meat pops

           

We let her have her

time alone—

tummies empty as the house

She sold the piano when Dad left—

used to tickle the ivory keys while

he crashed the cue in his makeshift

billiard room  He’d let us spin

the ice in his glass

She sold the white dominoes, the leather

couches, the pretty fan, the pool balls, Great Great

Grandma’s false teeth—

now we can eat

She works

in provisions, she says  But

I saw her at the Meat Pantry

clawing guts from a stomach

snapping ribs with her tiny hands

The meat spits from the pan, turns

tumor-gray, gurgles, laughs, spits

Nine o’clock  Mom sweeps

into the room, singing French, all teeth

The dressing gown burns a long silver road at her feet

           

            A movie star

with those two crème hairsticks

those slim whittled tusks

her last line of defense—

like spotlights

swung against the night