He said he wouldn’t
be coming home for dinner
tonight or tomorrow
or any other night.
Like he did with the best of himself,
he phoned it in from his truck;
leaving her with a rising
in her belly and a rising
loaf of crisp brown bread
- a mutual recipe-
in a hot gas oven;
leaving her to raise them,
chew them up alone,
and swallow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem