Villanelle

  ‘What’s for dinner?’ they ask—the hundredth time.
  Her bones ache—the oven is hot.
  ‘A chook’, she lies, ‘with thick bread and old wine’.
  
  she can’t stand the brightness of the lime,
  wonders why it doesn’t turn brown and rot.
  ‘What’s for dinner?’ they ask—the hundredth time.
  
  At six o’clock she prepares the brine,
  wipes down the bench to get rid of the grot.
  ‘A chook’, she lies, ‘with thick bread and old wine’.
  
  She doesn’t want to cook, is sick of the mime.
  They’d settle for fried eggs, wouldn’t give a jot.
  ‘What’s for dinner?’ they ask—the hundredth time.
  
  She winces—their look is canine.
  She’s turned into a cooking robot.
  ‘A chook’, she lies, ‘with thick bread and old wine’.
  
  She wonders if she left if they would pine.
  They don’t know her suitcase is packed with the lot.
  ‘What’s for dinner?’ they ask—the hundredth time
  ‘A chook’, she lies, ‘with thick bread and old wine’.