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Sunday Dinners

I woke up in the oven,
my mother standing outside
laughing at me.

I pressed my palms
against the oven door;
they sizzled.
Heat jolted through my arms.

My skin was peeling,
while my hair frizzed
and fried.
My feet were black.
All feeling was lost.

I gave the door a tremendous shove,
and spilled onto the kitchen floor.
The cold tile felt pleasant against
the limbs I could still feel.

I looked up and saw my brother
Fall frozen from the freezer.
His skin was white as the ice
that flourished over his hair.
His nose was a crimson red.


My mother stood over us cackling.
A wine bottle in one hand,
a syringe in the other.





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This article has 4 comments. Post your own now!

Kaitbryn said...
Feb. 11, 2011 at 9:08 am
Very creative, I have to say!! Where, might i ask, did the ispiration for this peice come from?!?
 
CeciliaIsEeyore replied...
Feb. 11, 2011 at 11:52 pm
Thank you! Well one day I was sitting in the kitchen with one of my quirkier friends and she asked if I thought she could fit in the oven. I had no idea, but the next day in my creative writing class everyone was assigned poems about hot and/or cold. A child in a scorching oven seemed a lot more interesting than writing about the weather, so I just rolled with it. 
 
Corinna replied...
Feb. 13, 2011 at 11:15 am
they finally exceptied the piece. Yeah
 
CeciliaIsEeyore replied...
Feb. 13, 2011 at 11:59 pm
Haha. I've been dying here.
 
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