Rachel has an extraordinary gift
to burn toast beyond repair, a talent
she inherited from her grandfather,
she says. The smell of coffee
and fire tells me she’s up.
I say, You can throw that away.
I can just make you some.
She shakes her head and twirls the knife
like she’s doing a magic trick. It disappears
into the hole in the center of the avocado.
When the knife emerges in victory,
drowning in green entrails,
she makes it dance
across the burned bread.
For just a second,
I envy that piece of bread.
I’ve seen Rachel and her sister make
four-course meals appear from a closet-sized kitchen.
I’ve watched her spend an afternoon
greased up under her 1981 Ford Mustang,
bringing up every bolt and twisted chunk of metal from the engine
and put it all back together again.
I’ve stolen glances over her shoulder
while she’s designed and colored mermaids, ghosts,
a self-portrait that holds up a middle finger. The markers sigh
when she strokes them. The page lifts itself up in ecstasy
to meet her touch. She is art personified.
But she hasn’t mastered the art of the toaster.
Grilled cheese sandwiches covered
in charcoal, singeing my taste buds
on Tuesday nights with just popped open
bottles of rosè and theme music of nineties sitcoms.
I could just make my own
damn sandwich, but I never do.
She takes a bite and says, Not bad.
And I don’t know how to explain
that I would rather eat her burned sandwiches
than the finest meals in the world.
Taryn Miller teaches middle school in Colorado and is currently working towards her MFA through Stetson University. When she isn’t writing, she likes to geek out and cuddle with her dog. Her poetry has previously been published in Persephone’s Daughters, USRepresented, and Germ Magazine, as well as other publications.