Best Served Cold

Gwendolen Mair

Into the kitchen small feet trod,
her dress is pressed, her makeup done.
Dainty, she flits from task to task,
preparing long held dinner plans.

The block is out, begins to chop,
clop clop, carrot heads quick to drop.
Celery stalks keel to the sink,
sharp blade peels tomato skin.

One purple onion, finely cut,
cucumber, peeled, seeded, chopped.
A new recipe will she try,
and won't her husband be surprised?

She chills her dish and washes up,
now awaiting his homecoming.
Her strong arms lift his dirty clothes,
foreign perfume invades her nose.

The laundry's done, and he returns,
he smirks and roughly kisses her.
He drops his case, and throws his coat,
sitting down, ready to consume.

In the kitchen she must prepare
her secret special integrant.
She adds the new ingredient;
A pinch of this, a dash of that.

Smiling, she serves the special fare,
and watches his porcine motion.
“This tastes like shit,” he shouts at her.
“I swear to God you've poisoned me!”

Returns she to the kitchen sink,
washing slowly her hands and bowl.
She hears a crash, and gives a grin:
Revenge is a dish best served cold.