Mother savored the mock
mayo, slathered it
on Wonder Bread with a leaf
of iceberg lettuce
amidst a hail
of salt and pepper.
She shredded cabbage
and drowned the tendrils,
mixed it with relish
to home-make tartar,
bought it by the jug
yet she never had enough.
I learned to crave the zing
when it first
hits your tongue—a bit
like a lemon
but without
the bitter after.
I would eat spoonfuls
after a bad day at school—
satin slipping
silver through
my angsty
teenage body.
And I understood,
without words for it,
how addictions start
with yearn then bargain
for that rush
of soothe and hearten.
