Though she’s allergic to my peanut love,
mom makes the lunchtime sandwich each morning,
says a prayer, takes a breath, rewraps the loaf,
tempers my warm smile with her chill warning.
She keeps down the unholy fricatives
that Hell, so sweet, full of drowned ambition,
throws up to remind: only God forgives.
More acidic damage to dentition.
And by the time I’m too soon home again,
the house is clean, the sorrow is empty.
My sly attempts might have worked, some time gone.
Even now the peanut butter tempts me.
Just once I could eat a bit, slip beneath
warding arm, kiss her, make her catch her breath.
Chad Musick is a mathematician and editor/writer who lives in Japan with his family. He lectures professionally about grammar rules and then breaks them freely when it suits him. He tweets jointly with his wife @TheMusicks.