Tough Cut

The vent is broken, just hums a hollow note

while the fat catches and turns to a black grit.

I let the pan get too hot, a lump in my throat

as the kitchen air thickens, bit by bit.

She used to let it braise until the beef gave up,

collapsing into strings under a dull plastic fork.

Now I'm pouring lukewarm water from a cup

onto a scorched Pyrex, doing the heavy work

of scraping the carbon from the glass rim.

The center is still raw, a stubborn, bloody red.

The light in the apartment is getting dim

while I try to eat the things she never said.