Fallout (Crank 3)

hand. All tied up, three-three.

Grab a beer and come sit down.

“Sure. Give me a few.” I follow

the drift of sage and rosemary

toward the kitchen, where

the women have gathered like

ravens to watch Mom crust

the prime rib with fresh ground

pepper and rock salt. Marie Haskins

doesn’t need cooking shows.

Experience trumps experiments.

It’s a scene right out of a movie.

Five women, all beautiful

within their own stages of life,

talking and laughing and drinking

wine. Golden-shelled pies decorate

the granite countertops, leak

scented steam, hinting at their

anonymous fillings. Bread

dough rises in yeasty grandeur,

and a chorus line of foil-wrapped

potatoes await their own turn in

the oven. It’s a scene right out

of a movie, okay. Artificial.

Look into any of these ladies’

eyes, I guarantee you’ll find

some manner of hurt. Something

to deny feasting and celebration.

Something to deny Thanksgiving.

CALL ME A CYNIC