“Wooly Bully” blasts from the radio.

She thin-slices cabbage with a butcher knife,

smashes and dices garlic in the narrow kitchen.

Another old rented house.

She wipes a strand of red hair

from her damp brow

with the back of her hand,

scrubs dirt from carrots,

quarters baby red potatoes,

corned beef simmers.

Heat in the cast iron kettle,

Heat in her head.

She tugs at her mini skirt,

tugs at her T-shirt.

Her feet dance

but onion tears streak her cheeks.

Nothing will clear her troubled mind.

The secret will gnaw.

This morning she lied

in court for him.

C.J. Prince