Mae Clarke

Just to
make it stop
he pushed her
face into
her lunch.
Right down
to the
bottom
of the bowl
of tepid
chicken
soup.
She
surfaced,
face
dripping stock,
a matzoh ball
flush in her mouth.
When she bit it
in half
and spat
the remnants
across the
table
he knew
no good
was coming.

Tim Wells