Read Poem: Let’s Make a Meal, by Stephanie Odili

The menu is limited.
The ingredients, contorted.
But I am a woman who knows how to manage
How else could we have survived years of this damage?

The preparation is relatively simple.
You get ¼ pain, ¾ Shame and ⅓ Sadness.
The more unbalanced the equation, the bitter the meal.
As the chaos begins to simmer, throw in 1/7 of guilt and 1/7 of grief.
The fire of the pot will almost go out, but hold, this marriage must cook.
Add 1/7 of pity.
Ignite the flame,
prepare for a party.
The ugliness of this meal is to remember the tears, ¾ will do.
Forget the recipe your mind will give you, how could she
without being here, know that he’s sick of your blues.
Throw in vinegar, add dark to gloom, watch him dissipate,
it’s only you who remembers the last time you were you.

The cooking is real hard work.
But persevere.
Or how else can you feel the heat?
You are a woman, the fiery heat is a conquest,
Your oiled, piled dirty dishes are proof for your inquest.
The final drink for such a meal is a home made cocktail.
Take ⅙ of trauma with ⅙ of vodka and ⅕ of maddener
The crazier you look, sound and feel,
the more delicious the mixture and meal.

The eating is torture.
You can serve your man parts of this dish.
If it’s cold, he will eat it.
If it’s warm, he will repeat it.
Eating for you is a habit
You eat, you shit, take his shit, repeat.

The digestion is the hardest.
Swallowing the pain is rough,
Chewing and twisting the truth is not.
If I choke on tears or wine, what difference does it make?
If I slit my throat or hand, what hell could possibly remain?
So my broken heart tears, and travels with the pieces to my gut.
The meeting of the two causes a rupture;
scattering the debris of my crushed life and body,
forcing it to expel into a thousand, wasted faeces.
He will come home and find me in my mess.
He will sigh, pick up his phone and call his miss.