Mistress

I should be the shiny one,

all my pores oozing the fat

of the earth.

When I lean to the table

my breasts should rest on the cloth

plump as hens.

If I can’t pick and choose, fire

guests who don’t please me after

the first course,

I should at least rule feast days,

blushing as the family toasts

my grand meal.

Instead I’m the pet under

the table, nosing crotches,

begging scraps.