Red Pepper Days

After Burger King first replaced the family roast,
a rusted black Nissan Cherry that smelt of him
ferried us to a terraced house
on a ring road
in a new town.

It felt like my heart on the white, plastic board
sliced and diced to the sound of ZZ Top.

Cut off the lid, like this. See?
Pluck out all the insides in one quick twist!

Today the rings fall like holy shamrocks
(The Absent Father, Son and Ghost)
and though the onions begin their work
it’s the plump, red peppers that slap my face
shrieking like tarts about those acts of Sunday worship.

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