The Kitchen III
Then there were the times he laid himself out
like a wet sweater on the kitchen floor,
flatout as an ironing board, arms
corpse-crossed against his chest, not like
he’d fallen, just settled there like sediment
undisturbed in a dirty cup. There was Mother
above him, clapping her hands in attempt
to stir him from sleep, clapping as she did
during the cooking day to rid the excess flour
from her fingers. Clapping as if to applaud
the neatness – always her favorite thing –
with which he rolled his body out
atop linoleum in a slim, submissive strip,
prepped to ascend later, vampire-style,
before his children tripped over him
on their way to the refrigerator, or the rise
of day turned up the heat and burned his skin.
mareymercy. 
I love this as it is only one step away from prose and creates its own territory very nicely. Beautiful writting!
Thanks!
What a beautiful picture you create with words!
And this is riveting :
“not like
he’d fallen, just settled there like sediment
undisturbed in a dirty cup”
Thanks, Uma!
Love the descriptive words…. hands corpse-crossed….. like a wet sweater….. very vivd images you paint here…. enjoyed it a lot……
Thank you!
I love the image of the wet sweater. It’s perfect!
Thanks, Mel!
It also resonates. I know this man. Too well.
I kinda know him, I know people who could be him pretty easily, at least.