& like the thudding of a pestle, my heart beats into shreds.
How does love in the family taste when it spreads on the tongue?
I do not know the aroma of peace; all that is cooked in my home is war.
Last night, mum served dad yells for dinner
& he feasted on her with slaps.
I wonder if a melee is some sort of an entrée
because all that is served at home is violence.
Lately, I have learnt to process a different type of meal;
a type of viand chosen in my parents' house.
We fry curses like pepper,
Boil anger like water,
& stir a woman to unconsciousness with the spatula of blows and jabs,
which tears love apart, splashing water to the eyes.