Banal Bemoan

“I don’t like my ribs in this photo…”
she says
as I pour hot liquid mud
in the kitchen

“…I look too thin…”

Steam twirls its skirt
an enticing aroma of beans
crushed
and cut with sugar

the voice continues to claim
“…and I’m sooo pale…”

I step back into the living room
sit down holding heat
in a tiny red
tazzina

Tentatively
I sip
stretch out my hand
to touch her back
palm spread on spine

I want to reassure once more
but
I say nothing
instead
I exhale what feels like my last breath
and just stare
with a wry smile
captured
by the child like curls
on the nape
of her neck