I Keep The Bones To Myself

Sunny Sunday morning.
Hub has take the girls on adventures.
Spring Biathlon, He dubs it:
Skating first, biking after.
What a guy!

I stay back.
Feel the cool air on my skin,
Walk through this glorious morning to yoga
Where I stretch my body on the floor like
A cat, purring in the sunny spot
By the big, tall windows of that
Old brick loft.

I send a little message to the past
To new-mother Kate, the one of 8 years ago
And 7 years ago
6 Years ago
Especially 5 and a half years ago:
#itgetsbetter.

The walk home is fresh and  hungry.

There's lamb stew, started last week,
Simmered for hours one night after the girls' bedtime.
I'll dress it up with raisins, tomatoes, warm spices.
We'll eat it toghether tonight, then again all week until it's gone.

Working parenthood.

I wash my hands well -- it's tactile work:
Pry the fat from the top of the pot
Like so much ice off a winter pond,
Grab up the island chunks
Wrench cold, firm meat from rigid bones.
Fat goes into a cup.
(Hub is making soap; perhaps he'll want it.)
The bones, I set aside on a plate.
Which I nuke
Stomach grumbling.

Warm and savory, now
I scrape every last morsel of collagen
With my teeth.
What would my vegan friends think?
Ah, what do they know.
This is the best part.

Go on, Mama.
Suck the marrow out of life.