Roux

The roux is not yet dark

when she dumps the coffee cup into the sink

then stops, transfixed,

whipsawed back a decade.

…

That was not coffee in her teen son’s cup,

the liquid not a thick caramel but a watery grey

peppered with chunks of tobacco

irregular as broken teeth.

…

Just then her boy had stood right there,

majestic as a Viking prince, tossed his head, said

“THAT’s not winning,”

Angry, turned quickly, strode away.

…

It was as though his father had been

conjured from the past before her very eyes,

glowing in restored youth,

again the person everyone would follow.

…

The quick athletic pivot

told his father’s whole tale;

always coiled tight as a spring,

brain a beehive of resentments.

…

Rinsing the chaw from the sink

she wonders if the bill’d come due -

half his blood was never hers

and her half was no bargain either.

…

It was time to add the stock,

to turn the frying chicken.

Don’t crowd the pieces,

she could always hear Grandma say.

…

But tonight she hears “blood will out”.

No, Grandma, no, she thinks.

He’s a good boy.

This one’s a good boy.

…

1 February 2019