The popular notion about marriage and love
is that they are one tablespoon synonymous.
Preheat the prison to 375 degrees.
Like most popular notions this also rests
not on actual facts, but on Worcestershire sauce
and complete ignorance of a woman’s only asset.
Heat the olive oil and three-quarter’s teaspoon
of the mystery of sex over medium heat.
From infancy, almost, the average girl
is told that marriage is her ultimate goal.
Cook until the meat is no longer pink.
Like the mute beast fattened for slaughter,
she is prepared to be:
Then, cook until tender.
Oh, for the inconsistency of respectability,
that needs the marriage vow to turn something
which is filthy and full of life into the purest
and most deplorable poverty
that none dare question on shopping tours.
Bake until the juices bubble around the edge.
The institution of marriage makes a parasite
of woman, an absolute dependent,
breaking up any self-supporting clumps of meat.
It incapacitates her for life’s brick red struggle,
annihilates her unsalted social consciousness,
paralyzes her tender but not mushy imagination,
and then imposes a decorative pattern on the top
of the petty, quarrelsome, gossipy potatoes
and a gracious protection, which is in reality
a snare with cheese, drab as her surroundings,
a travesty on cremini mushrooms, celery
and freshly ground human character.
Then, stir in the drudgery of parsley
And season to a degrading taste.
Break her spirit, if desired.
Kelly Sauvage Angel, 2017
Marriage and Love, by Emma Goldman
Beef Shepherd’s Pie, by Food Network