Two sisters sluggishly stare out the window
At mountains obscured by a fountain of water
Raining down from darkened skies
And then, the call
Just the simple word of cocoa like batteries in a toy
Energy renewed, they sprint down the stairs
Soft cottoned feet sliding on tile as they reach the kitchen
They’ve entered the maternal kingdom
Stainless-steel appliances the Queen’s weapons of choice
Along with knives and forks
Those implements of torture that rip away at soft dead flesh, soon to be consumed
But today the kingdom is comfortable
The scent of cinnamon tickling their nostrils
Making them lust for the warmth on their tongue
They watch the Queen stir the magic potion, steam rising from the mug
The only one allowed to take action in her kingdom
She hands a mug to the youngest, already squirming with delight
And one to the oldest, who waits patiently
They sit together, laughing and telling stories
As a voice comes on, persuading you to buy cocoa
I shut off the TV
Laughing at the hot cocoa commercial
That’s not how life is
Here, the Queen is a Witch
Whose weapons are sharp tongued insults
And an even sharper backhand
And hot cocoa is made in the harsh dead silence
Of an unhappy, empty house