Pot Roast

confined to bed

and sensing her demise

she asks for boiled beef

though I am repulsed by meat

and haven’t a clue

how to prepare it

I nod and promise her pot roast

as her eyes brighten

what I refused to do for my children

or my husband

I now do for her

just as I made myself

carry a phone

so she could reach me

I now teach myself

the art of the pot roast

after all I have watched my mother-in-law

enough times

sprinkling the roast with salt and pepper

searing it

stewing it with potatoes and carrots

how hard can it be?

truthfully

pot roast might’ve saved my marriage

(if I had wanted it saved)

if I had occasionally purchased

a nicely marbled english roast

and simmered it until it fell off the bone

as a simple act of kindness

it might’ve saved my molars from root canals

the mineral-rich broth curing tooth decay

it might’ve taught me

the dialectics of sacrifice and compromise

honoring the steer

that gave its life

for others to thrive

even a very very old woman

who still has enough teeth to chew tender meat

and now for the first time since she’s left us

I rub a roast with sea salt

and freshly ground black pepper

I quarter onions and slice carrots

I throw in some thyme and parsley

from the field street garden

and leftover wine from her repast

I eat pot roast alone now

the portion I would have saved for her

gets tucked into the freezer

as I age

I too crave boiled beef

the fatty broth

and the carrots that melt

between tongue and upper palate

in her honor

I chop, sear, simmer

as the onions bring salty tears

I pull the meat off the bone

then boil the bones until they disintegrate

I take the nourishment

as my bodily memorial