Steak Night

In husbandland I am made
of hamburger, eggs and potatoes

a food brew really
scraps spackled.

A kitchen swells around
full of cakes and clocks

and babydolls not like ham.
A hash has happened

the husband is absent
my marriage dress hangs

by the stove.
I put me in my mouth

to taste patty melts
stripey fats and underblood

juicy dregs for geraniums.
I could let drops

and grow victory gardens
might I cleave a piece to suck?

O the eggs are growing old
or else they’re growing lungs.