over an all-you-can-eat
buffet, a Gravely lawn mower
my only dowry.
So I moved from daddy's home
to his shiny new kitchen,
where I learned to cook
country fried steak
for a husband's fattening stomach
and washed dirty work
uniforms to kill the smell
of grease and soured sweat.
I learned the recipes
by heart at first, and then
gradually learned to dash
in spices for interest,
praying for a secret ingredient,
for some perfect seasoning
to make the deal my daddy made
work, to make my life bearable.
At 17, I knew nothing of the trade,
but time and heat gave rise
to a woman, and she left him,
his kitchen, stomach, mower,
and daddy too.
No daddy, I'm not through,
If God made man from dust,
I can do better.
By Katherine Perry
Katherine Perry has a new book of poetry out, Long Alabama Summer.
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