the war room
the bomb was dropped
at dinner
feta lingering between my teeth and tongue
never learned to love it
expanding in my chest
this hot presence
somehow managing to remove myself from me
leaving her a shell
simple statistics
they tell you one in three will have it
and you barely believe
until your mothers turn inside out
or your sisters
and you know
remember being seven
maybe younger…
watching it on the tv
sneak-peeked it
foreign and familiar
something lascivious and lingering
black pleather and podiums
spreading warmth and something
aching
the bomb sat between us on the table
my mother’s bomb
words turned into something palpable
larger than that wooden expanse
star space spread and separating
twisting her away
back to that mushroom cloud
the heat of a nuclear reaction
near my nucleus
i am cowardly of truth
so i washed the feta from my teeth
and smiled
Modern Day Dirae 
I always have to go back through your work a third and fourth time because I’ll get so caught up in your words and your imagery that I won’t notice the broader story line. That’s a good thing. 🙂
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The detail about feta – that’s what makes the difference. The war references paired with such an everyday item is what makes this so complex and interesting.
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