Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Thirty-six Winter 2014 |
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DINING STORY D.M. Aderibigbe Delicious steam leaps out of the two plates of rice before you and your mother. The usual toothsome prayer of appreciation lacks a man’s voice. As she stabs the rice’s belly with a fork, you could hear anger clinking on the plate, and somehow, you know the only empty chair on the dining set has broken your mother’s heart. Out of an abundance of lies some truths are born: the last time your mother told a story, it was at the dining table, and the sweet story ended on her fluttering cheek, because the protagonist was sitting on that empty chair—dipping a fork, hung with chicken’s flesh into your mother’s mouth. |
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