print previewback FRITZ WARD
Beater
Chilled milk
in mason jars
and her voice
like Pittsburgh
after the steel.
Here is the raw
and the ripe
of it—runny eggs
and Sunday stew,
fat crackling
in the cast iron.
On the windowsill,
a blue shot
glass cradling
our lost teeth.
This is the recipe
for our first scar,
for caramelizing
the skin of the rabbit,
for winning
the losing half
of the wishbone.
With our never-
endings and our
hungers, we watch
the slivers of her
face reflected
in the picket
of blades—boning,
bread, carving.
Their gleaming flanks,
their blackened
handles. We want to love
what we put in our mouths,
but first we must swallow
everything we’ve already
bitten. 
Beater
Queen-Sized