Single Parenting in the House of Refined Appetites

Your rent’s cheap

for a reason.

If the wine cellar offers

to watch little Emma

so you can have a few

precious minutes to yourself,

always say no thanks.

If you slip up

and she’s ingested

by the breathing walls

and you’re racing from

great room to conservatory,

screaming her name, flicking

lights to catch glimpses

of her weeping silhouette,

try bargaining instead:

Emma’s flavor for yours,

plus seasoning.

Coat yourself in garlic butter.

Salt liberally. Slather with

eye-watering desperation. As

you descend tooth-

                             lined

                                   steps

into the dark, dripping basement,

pray the house

can’t handle

dad’s suicide

hot sauce recipe.