Where the Yellow Brick Road Turns West

1.

Each day my new father led me
farther out and away from my sequester

in the warmth of your kitchen—
the one unassailable domain of women in those days

Sitting cross-legged in dubious sanctum under the table
with green plastic soldiers lined up to save the king

secured amid aromas of fresh baked bread
and the sound of eggs popping in bacon grease

I lived for the sweet privilege of licking rubber spatulas
thick with icing, my limbs laden with lard

from your biscuits and gravy, scalloped potatoes, hamburger casseroles, macaroni and cheese, liver and onions, cornbread and chili

Did you worry then, mother, about the unforgiving nature
of a child playing God when I wiped out a whole platoon

with a single backhand, accompanied by a score of sound effects
from lip-sputtering explosions to blood-curdling battlecries and death      throes?

Did you pray then as you spooned Hungarian goulash into the crockery      bowl
Dear Lord, do not let my son grow up to be his father?

And did you want to cry all those times you chased me into a corner
wagging your shoe at wit's end because I asked for it?

because the scab of former life was still fresh enough to pick
and I kept picking at it until it bled?

because I couldn't understand how once you learn his name
even a God-fearing Christian woman can learn to live with the devil?

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