Gravy on a bruise

the turkey came out dry
like a joke nobody laughs at
but everybody chews anyway
because it’s tradition
because your mother said so
because you already bought the goddamn bird.

i stood over it
with the knife and the cheap confidence
of a woman who thinks heat equals love.
the skin looked good—
golden, smug,
like it had something to prove.
then the blade went in
and the truth came out
in pale, crumbling shards.

dry.
not “oops” dry.
more like a long, official drought
signed by both parties
and notarized by silence.

we sat at the table—
me, him,
and that space between us
that used to be a country
and now is just an empty parking lot
where nothing parks
except excuses.

he passed the meat
like he passed me
in the hallway:
polite, careful,
pretending not to notice
the hunger.

i dabbed gravy on it
like makeup on a bruise.
he did the same.
we both knew
you can’t sauce your way
back into feeling.

the marriage used to be a roast
slow and loud and alive—
burning, smoking,
too much at once.
now it’s this:
two people with calendars
and a bed that squeaks
like a complaint.

friends with benefits, they call it,
like there’s a coupon involved.
like it’s a sensible plan.
like it’s not just
two lonely bodies
meeting in the dark
to prove they still exist.

we have sex sometimes
the way you chew dry turkey:
methodical,
a little resentful,
hoping the next bite
will be different.

it isn’t.

after, he rolls away
and i stare up at the ceiling
like it’s a menu
and everything good
is out of stock.

the turkey sits there
getting colder,
getting smaller,
turning into leftovers
nobody wants
but nobody throws out.

and that’s the saddest part—
not the dryness,
not the blandness,
not even the empty plates—
it’s how we keep showing up
to the same meal
year after year
with the same knives
and the same mouths
and the same careful lies:

it’s fine.
it’s not that bad.
it’ll be better next time.

but i know
next time is just
another bird,
another heat,
another table
set for two strangers
who remember each other
mostly by habit
and the soft, pointless work
of chewing.