Should have known fifty pounds of potato
salad is more than you can handle in your
cramped, tomato-red kitchen
should have known that since I inherited Mom’s
pots, took care all these years—while you ran wild—
that I’d always be the one to lead the salad jobs.
When you struggled through my front door with
onion, celery and potatoes, crinkling your crow’s feet,
I should’ve known we’d still be fighting over paper dolls
should have known you’d deny everything, even after
all these years, and soothe the salad with sour cream to
grab cheap praise, forget to add a dash of horseradish.
You mush by hand and I spoon dressing, say you
want it wet as your tight pussy just to shock and
wipe a mayonnaise-coated hand across your tit.
We swat flies on my hot patio, talk grand
kids and high blood pressure, dice sweet pickles
and warty little spuds. You chop onions, I cry—
about what I should have known, little sister,
you’re always such a brat!