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Click hereI bought six dozen Balls
(pint size jars, of course)
with lids and rings
and did not forget the brine.
He loved the taste of salt.
One, two, three tablespoons
pickling salt,( per jar)
crushed red pepper
and garlic for flavor
as he had no taste of his own.
As I lower the jars
into the boiling water bath
it strikes me as ironic-
his refusal to bathe, now
so clean in his final division.
But I will not rest
until I hear him cooling.
The inverted pop of the lids
that seals his fate
sets me free.
but I think I would have composted him myself. Great poem. :-)
who turned her husband into a set of plaid place mats...
Good recipe, too!
we have all had a mr. wrong to whom we wanted to do this - or something equally horrific. yours sounds so much prettier than what i wanted to do.. and that is the perfect touch. something so twilight zone-ish expressed poetically.. so pretty and so deadly. keep writing i love your style. slavegurl
Okay, so this is about canning a man for real? Is he chopped up into chunks? Reminds me of some older poems of mine. One was about me being in a box and the box having my arms and legs and running down the stairs and tripping my ex and he dies. Anyway, reminds me of my fun, sadistic poetry. You need to write a part two, where there's a food shortage because of a natural disaster and the only thing left to eat is... well, he'd finally be good for something.