Hot Sunday hot oven

and linoleum kitchen,

red wine breath

and crumb brushed shirt front.

She is absent in easy listening land,

humming to static

as the kids play outside.
Front door slams on his heavy tread,

and her hands make fists

in the bowl full of stuffing –

parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme

that she shoves up the arse

of the carcass in front of her.
Get stuffed, he says

as he comes up behind her,

guffaws awful hands round her waist.
It shits and it flaps and it runs round the yard,

but he's never realised

that this tired old joke

lost its head on the block

many years ago.
Thud

and a crunching of vertebrae.

In her mind

she sees bright blood

pumping.