Two images came to mind that I thought I'd try.  I'm not sure.  I like the straight-forward simplicity of the first one, the lack to image/metaphor, I thought, kept it focused.  However, I really want you guys to see how difficult the revision process it.  It can be truly exhuasting. 


I still haven’t washed the window from which
You watched the birds throw their
seed from their feeder.

And I still can’t forget how
I hollered about how
there was nothing you could show me that I wanted to see.

Because I was cooking too.
I was dipped and coated in answer and insult--
I sizzled and popped with disgust after

They plucked every feather
like a stubborn flower petal until

I became a glossy fattened pig
on the dining room table,
apple-in-mouth, still squealing.

It made me question and hate
and spit and devour anything--

hungry and never done.

Still, you called for me to come and see.
If it wasn’t a quail, it was a hawk or a cat
that was reading one to bed.

But, there was one time I trudged barefoot
to the linoleum floor
where I watched you watch the birds
outside with creased concern.

I watched you call my name again.
I watched you start to cry
alone in our kitchen,

while I pretended not to see.