Unlike the grotesque bonnet
worn at church, the apron
is more a second cousin
to the humble scarf in winter.
The apron would never say
“So what” to you. She’s agreeable
as a kitchen mantle with ripening fruit.
A sponge when it comes to stink:
splatter of fish scales and fish guts,
the errant strafe of grease
from angry skillets, the teary onion’s
grief and stutter. In middle life,
the apron aspires to stand before
sinners and saints and carve
verses on stone: mon coeur mis à nu,
she’ll tattoo on your chest.
She’s your last line of defense
against burnt anchovies,
the wide net draping
over the frightful forest,
the canvas cradling the boxer’s face,
a makeshift dressing
on a playground wound.
The apron is the fulsome embrace
for a brother shoving off—
the one with empty pockets
coming home to the damp, dark
folds of her familiar stink.
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