chicken chili
i am my mother’s daughter, i open her cans
i sit on her counter, i fall apart in her hands
she uses corn, beans and chicken, i try it before it’s clean
i belong in her kitchen—it smells raw like me
i’ve cried in this chair more than i can count
she brushes my hair then she wants me out
kitchen to me is the comfort and care of a mother’s arms
i’m just like my mother, i’ve got her lines in my palms
she won’t let me taste until the chili is ready
i stand at the stove to wait; i’m scared she’ll forget me
when i told my mother, she tucked me in
got some beans from the cupboard & thawed the chicken
she won’t let me eat my chili in bed
at the table i weep, i crumble my chips
my mother goes for a walk, she leaves me behind
when i try to talk, she starts to cry
we cook in silence, she does most of the work
i need her guidance because everything hurts
i don’t want to be sad, i want to eat her food
i miss dreams of pink cats instead of funeral rooms
in my dreams i am dying, but i’m scared of the grave
i tell my mother i’m trying, but my head feels all gray
my mother wants to know why i fixate on my death
she said at the end of the story her daughter should live
Christina Polge is a sophomore at UNC Chapel Hill in Chapel Hill, NC, double majoring in English and Journalism. You can find her work in The Durham Voice, Pinesong published by North Carolina Poetry Society, and Voyage YA’s inaugural Deep in the Drafts anthology. When not writing, she enjoys driving through puddles, frolicking in meadows, and hosting picnics.
The Albion Review 