SHE WHO EATS ALONE HAS MORE DUMPLINGS
by Cheryl Kutcher
Last night, I sang in the shower for the first time,
reclaiming the steam, letting it saturate my throat,
hesitantly unafraid to be heard. It took me years
to train myself to hold back my garbled syllables,
years to remind myself he was no longer waiting
just outside. It’s the little victories. Even then, I am afraid
to edit that old poem because I know I will change
the listed emotions—from when I was freshly bruised—
and I buy enough groceries for two, unused to cooking
for only myself. Even then, I package what’s left, stand
in front of the open freezer, full with forgotten
dinners. Even then, I keep breathing in the steam.
Gyroscope Review - !43