Maybe I Can Microwave it

I’ve microwaved peanut brittle, kale, beets, potatoes, and any number of words I never should have said. I’d like to shove my father’s letters into the microwave. Those early letters to my mother that didn’t acknowledge my existence. Denial was dessert. Or maybe the main course. My parents were master chefs, slicing and dicing denial. No wonder I was a constipated baby. That was before microwaves. Perhaps denial is best served cold.

published in Iceberg's Poetry