The Dining Room is Epicaricatric
Poetry
Carefully, I lift the spoon to my lips. There is no word for this.
But there is fresh venom pouring from the red walls.
Fourteen eyes around the table, blue, but my mother’s are brown.
The meat on my plate is rare and bloody. My fork works its way into my thigh.
An old white lamp sits precariously on the edge of the record player.
Heatwaves simmering out the spout.
Once a twin, its partner shattered on the wall across the room.
My father is a violent man. His eyes are blue.
Calmly, he passes his cup to fill.
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