White-Eating Husband
I eat only white, so what.
Mashed potatoes, glasses of milk,
vanilla ice cream. It’s good.
She tries not to look
as I pick my way through dinner
greens and yellows pushed to the side.
She says she’s leaving – my tight
roses flutter, an alarming dove slaps
and flaps in my ribcage.
A good trick, roses to doves.
Reckless applause rises
as I eat some red, its burst of sweet.
A white ambulance arrives
and a white-shirted
EMT rushes to my side.
poem and handmade paper by mary macgowan, a previous version of this poem was published in Licking River Review, Vol.30, 1998-99
Songs for the Pure of Heart 