Mary had a little piece of lamb chop
left over from lunch
that she weighed on a white kitchen scale,
when all she really wanted was a tangy plate of barbeque
so greasy that her palm would grow wet from the moisture seeping through
her paper plate.
an old, white pullover—
at the Goodwill store down the road.
Everywhere that Mary went
her children had to go.
They bickered as she cooked dinner,
cried for another piece of candy,
and begged to eat Mc Donald’s
all the way to the bathroom where she barricaded herself
with a shot of vodka and a 2012 issue of Cosmopolitan
turned to “8 Ways to Dramatically Improve Your Sex Life.”
She cringed at each rhythmic knock on the door.
Mary had a small tear that almost formed
as she sat on her hands and knees for exactly one hour and twelve minutes
on a Friday evening
with a butter knife
scraping dried raisin spice oatmeal off of her kitchen floor
because she could not clean it up that morning
as she had to leave to drop off her children
and be at work on time–
because you are still not as drained as Mary.
I am not Mary,
I will write about Mary
And burn my index finger on a frying pan
thinking about Mary,
but I am not–
Mary had a grilled chicken salad the next afternoon
because she was eating lunch with friends
who also ate green, leafy salads,
and she never told them
that hidden in her Coach purse
was a Double Quarter Pounder.
Because she usually kept a Double Quarter Pounder handy,
just in case she was asked to lunch by friends who only ate salads.
Mary came home and checked Facebook
Where she saw a mother of three,
an airbrushed tan and a six pack
preaching to her,
“There’s no excuse mom,”
Her bedroom mirror accused her,
highlighted by black canyons under her eyes.
that she stared into waves of Sharks,
with four attachments
and a retractable cord.