Holiday

She raises the spatula high and

plunges it down into the center

of the tray. She works out toward

the perimeter, but the ziti is still

too hot, too soft. The incision,

refusing to take, fills back in

on itself and soon vanishes.

All that is left behind are naked red  

patches where the cheese has been

dragged away by the spatula on its

doomed course.

But she will not be proven wrong.

She scoops out heavy portions and

slaps them onto plates. Ziti, sauce,

ricotta and mozzarella swirl together  

in soupy disarray.

“Gimme your plate.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Gimme your plate.”

“I don’t want it.”

THWAP!

  

She nails my forearm with the spatula. 

Scalding sauce splashes my arm, neck, face.

Avoiding eyes, I head back to

the living room for my jacket.

On TV, A burning yule log now

glows warmly on the small screen.

Some dead soul croons about mistletoe.    

At last, the holiday has begun.