He came home with Pandora’s bags in hand.
I shelved and shook my head and breathed: Not right.
Cheddar: sharp instead of mild. Ranch: lite
instead of Free. Pears: fresh instead of canned
and Quaker rather than a cheaper brand
of oats. The jalapeños had sulfites.
He bought lard and water in a net, tight
girdle for bloated bacon sold as ham.
Two-percent, slow grits—didn’t understand
my shopping list, did he? So why’d I shove
the wet, wadded bags into the trash, slam
the cupboards and tell him Thanks in reprimand?
Forget the hurled pots and heimlich hugs—
my short list made us victims of his love.
