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At the dinner table MAG
July 25, 2018
Like a growing tree,
I am rooted in place.
This table is a wasteland of decayed timber,
I wish to flee into the hollows.
My parents’ voices break from the kitchen,
I am terrified.
Cherry wine and cold roast beef stain
the white cloth where I sit,
Gripping the torn edges trying to ignore.
The pain in the throat does not end
as my mother’s tears are heard,
Raging screams rip from my father;
Breaking into a combustion of anger.
A sharp slap slices the air,
Silence.
To pretend is painful,
To not acknowledge is sin.
The dinner table –
An uprooted family tree.
© Michael L., Niskayuna, NY
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A little more raw with this one. I want to place a disclaimer that I write about everything and some of the scenarios are completely made up and not ones I have experienced. This is a piece about a broken family. I compared it to that of a tree because when I think of family I think of trees. How the main functions of a family start at the roots and work themselves up to the very leaves on the branches.