It’s there, in my stomach, and it stirs up; a wicked batter. All nettles and ache. My mom’s wooden spoon, weaponized, upside my brother’s heathen head. I wield it. I stick it in the mix and stir. A bloody mess as it blends. I taste it and wince. Too much despair. My hand heavy on the pour.
I open my mouth bucket-wide. I shovel it in.