Red Jello in the ice box—a constant—
no dimpled copper mold, but the Pyrex
dish, clear oblong glass shimmering
with the cheap glow of sugar, gelatin,
and red dye #40. In her shirtwaist
and crisp apron, she opened that white
enameled door, where sustenance shone
in iced light, glossy housewife’s magazine
ad, animal sacrifice in fine print:
gelatin from collagen of boiled bones
and hide, ground down to magic powder,
instant 1950s sheen. She bought it
by the box. She gobbled it by the bowl.
In place of pearls around her neck, she strung
holes she’d dug in the dirt where she’d buried
her words. In place of high heels, she inked
Bible verses on the soles of her feet,
trailing smeary hope and admonition
as she walked across the damp linoleum
of her just-mopped floor. Want congealed
under her tongue and rotted, along
with teeth—all false by 1964.
After years of gnawing with a porcelain
smile she’d been told was good as a real one,
her jawbone worn thin as their bank account,
she could no longer chew the bread of life.
Behind that shining white portal—the blood
and the body, the ruby sacrament.
She rose in the night, her longing so faint
all it took to fill it was a bowl of sweet lies.
*This poem was a Finalist in the SWWIM For-the-Fun-of-It Contest.