Night Raider
Creeping down at night
to pillage the larder
I am my own ghost on the stairs
searching for Digestive biscuits,
pungent oranges, hard cheese
so I can sink in my teeth,
leave a trail of crumbs,
a waft of citrus.
Mum will find stigmata of me eating
but she will never see me eat.
Her cauldron of chicken soup
on the stone slab
makes me retch,
the skating-rink of fat
will take an hour to melt
when she heats it up
for Shabbos dinner
my skeleton as centerpiece.
Sally Michaelson is a recently retired Conference Interpreter living in Brussels. Her poems have been published in Ink, Sweat and Tears, Lighthouse, Algebra of Owls, The Bangor Literary Journal, Squawk Back, Amethyst, and The Lake.