Across great-grandmother’s
Dining table and china,
You and I see
The aged melancholy, swimming
In the iridescent oil pools of one
Another’s recording cameras.
We sit alone at this
Eight-mouthed, Thanksgiving monster,
Gluttony and mundane
Red wine flowing
Small talk teeming,
Mother and her sixty’s sitcom
Reaming out our will to shred
This Good House-
Keeping world.
Forks and knives at five-o-clock,
Napkins to the left and men
Gallantly saunter back
To football games and beer bellies
While women scramble to collect
And wash dishes.
More wine? How about a slice of home baked pie?
A la mode?
Who is the most gracious, most refined, most lovely?
Ohhhh… guests are most impressed by the family…
Until a tear in the film.
A phone call…
Death in the family-
Not sudden-
But still…
Songs of her glory written in a fury
And tears appropriately handed out…
But brother and sister sit rigid,
Desperate longing locking
Them into reality.
They never knew her.
No one here
Knew her.
And you and I,
Eyes dry,
Don’t try to sing along.
©Copyright 2000 Joanna Brown
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