I can feel the heat as we step in:
Long, slow roast of family attention.
Temperature rising as courses unfold;
Meat falls off our bone of contention.
Sis passes turkey, her world dark/white.
She can keep her dry breast; for me, a thigh
Baked to my favorite succulent grey
Hers basted in always, never, and why
That sticks in my throat; tea washes down
The judgment that's left, sour silence right.
I ladle thick smiles, benign, over all
And salt with small talk. One little sigh
Cleanses the palate. The hour is stuffed
With crumbs of affection, sage advice
Chopped childhood stories, garnished with sparsely
Hidden resentments, slippery as peas. How nice
We could all get together, she lies, and we
Swallow it gratefully, stomachs bloating,
Clearing our minds with the dinner table,
Scraping pettiness into the sink. Coating
Remains. We soak it for now and cut
The desserts. This pie with the homemade crust
Is fine; flakes to the touch, floured feelings
Rolled delicate and thin. I brush crumbs
Away, but they're at it again,
Damning the present, blaming the past.
Pie filling too sweet to savor here.
But coffee--now that, I drink to the last
Bitter drop, though I hate it and still
Aftertaste lingers, caffeine thrill
Upholds my reserve. Best its black.
Acrid. Hot. Strong. Sip, sip some more will.
And close out this day, for which I am
Truly thankful.
