Image via Jabba the Hutt with Hair at tumblr
Fat and stinking, and muttering
to herself, she was the old woman
who lived in her shoes and clopped
around our house calling herself
"the housekeeper," the slob who
was given our spare room, a short-
lived experiment by worn working
parents who had no intention of
raising latch-key kids. With tongue
attached to one corner of her mouth,
she mumbled her three favorite words:
"My, my, my" overandover as her
weight thundered on the old floors,
and kittens scattered like Lilliputians
while we laughed behind her back.
After dinner my father would offer
the troll dessert— usually cake or pie.
"Just a sliver," she always said, she
always said, "Just a sliver," until
one night his disgust at the view of
this Jabba the Hutt drooling for
the large slice he always gave her
so overwhelmed him he used his
sharpest knife, his sharpest skill,
to carve from the chocolate cake
a sliver so tiny it made her cry.
Written for Poetics — It's Tempting! — at dVerse Poets, hosted
this week by Mary, whose prompt asks us to "...write about ‘temptation’
in some way. Yours or someone else’s. Factual (perhaps historical) or fictional."