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The Evening Meal.

Brooklyn, 1954

 My butcher father brought home a smell of fowl that no amount
of Old Spice, Lava soap, or cigar smoke could disguise. Some nights his
raspy skin was flecked with blood, or chicken feathers stuck to the back
of his neck were set aflutter when the door closed behind him. Though he
washed before dinner, the market was with us as he sat at the table,
knife in hand. I watched his face flicker through vapors from the dinner
platter, heard breath pass the bones of his broken nose, and waited.
There might be a sigh, lowered brows, a smile, and then the smell would
not matter anymore, might even vanish without a trace. 
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Author:Skloot, Floyd
Publication:Prairie Schooner
Article Type:Poem
Geographic Code:1U2NY
Date:Jun 22, 2010
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