Jeopardy

My mother is sitting in her chair

about to watch Jeopardy, but we give it up.

(It’s too late, they’ve been talking

to my brother on the phone.)

Dad comes in to ask about the chicken.

We give him some instructions:

preheat the oven, et cetera.

It’s last night’s chicken, undercooked then,

so this is the chicken rescue.

Later, he’ll be so proud of all his spices,

the olive oil, and how this time

it was cooked through, no pink at the bone.

“I’m not altogether there,” says my mom,

once he’s gone, “but I pretend.”

“Maybe you don’t have to pretend,”

I say. “Just be who you are now.”

She’s got tears in her eyes, and I hug her

in her armchair. We are awkward and stiff,

me standing, her sitting, but, “I love you,”

she says. “I love you, too.”

There’s no chance at all for Double Jeopardy.

We’re not interested in Final Jeopardy.

And this is the week Mayim Bialik

gets scolded for “single Jeopardy” on social media,

but she’s part of a stiff-necked people

and laughs it off gracefully. Even Alex Trebek

sometimes said “single Jeopardy,” and, anyway,

who wants to be too yoked to tradition,

like oxen to a cart of burdens?

We grow obstinate after years of subjugation.

Both of us, by sitting put, essentially said,

Why don’t you go cook that chicken?

and he did, like a god who might otherwise

consume us in his rage

but didn’t, as all that is left is love.

— Babs