Nov 2018
I can't stand the smell of mutton,
or the texture of liver, especially
after extended time on a dinner plate,
which meant we spent extended
time around an oval table,
my sisters and I with our
heads down, eyes averted,
no sound but the chatter of silverware.
I remember my cousin Scott told me one time
he put spaghetti in his pockets because he didn’t like
the way it felt in his mouth, he said he’d stuffed it down
and pulled it out later and flushed it down the toilet.
It made me wonder how his pants must have smelled,
but It was something I could never risk because
my uncle wasn’t a drinker, but my father was.
As the youngest of 5 I was
the only boy, and mother said
it was a privilege for me to sit
at the right hand of father,
a place of honor she said,
perhaps in other households.
For me it was a prison,
a daily nightmare of the unknown,
I spent forever in that chair
and was always the last to leave the table,
constantly burdened by congealed meat and organs.
Begging was useless, reprieve was never given.
On a random summer night
when I was 8 years old
my father announced with disgust,
“You eat like a bird!”
It was the way he dragged out the word
“B i i i i r r d”, so distinct, as if
he could no longer contain his abhorrence,
and once the restraint was broken
his words came fast and hot,
berating me for my
non-existent appetite.
He would have done well to
understand that fear suppresses hunger,
that alcoholism doesn't
allow for compassion or civility,
and when you live with a demon
its not you who’s in control.
I wept,
and his devil burned with rage.
“You are pathetic!” he screamed.
More tears
and then my sisters joined
in a chorus of muffles,
heads bowed,
we endured his wrath with no thought
of engaging or protesting.
Eventually I heard the screen door slam
and one by one my sisters abandoned the table,
escaping to who knows where.
I kept my head down for years.
When I finally looked up I was alone.
The girls were gone and father was off
to drink beer in his air conditioned room,
and mother?
I have no idea where she went.
or the texture of liver, especially
after extended time on a dinner plate,
which meant we spent extended
time around an oval table,
my sisters and I with our
heads down, eyes averted,
no sound but the chatter of silverware.
I remember my cousin Scott told me one time
he put spaghetti in his pockets because he didn’t like
the way it felt in his mouth, he said he’d stuffed it down
and pulled it out later and flushed it down the toilet.
It made me wonder how his pants must have smelled,
but It was something I could never risk because
my uncle wasn’t a drinker, but my father was.
As the youngest of 5 I was
the only boy, and mother said
it was a privilege for me to sit
at the right hand of father,
a place of honor she said,
perhaps in other households.
For me it was a prison,
a daily nightmare of the unknown,
I spent forever in that chair
and was always the last to leave the table,
constantly burdened by congealed meat and organs.
Begging was useless, reprieve was never given.
On a random summer night
when I was 8 years old
my father announced with disgust,
“You eat like a bird!”
It was the way he dragged out the word
“B i i i i r r d”, so distinct, as if
he could no longer contain his abhorrence,
and once the restraint was broken
his words came fast and hot,
berating me for my
non-existent appetite.
He would have done well to
understand that fear suppresses hunger,
that alcoholism doesn't
allow for compassion or civility,
and when you live with a demon
its not you who’s in control.
I wept,
and his devil burned with rage.
“You are pathetic!” he screamed.
More tears
and then my sisters joined
in a chorus of muffles,
heads bowed,
we endured his wrath with no thought
of engaging or protesting.
Eventually I heard the screen door slam
and one by one my sisters abandoned the table,
escaping to who knows where.
I kept my head down for years.
When I finally looked up I was alone.
The girls were gone and father was off
to drink beer in his air conditioned room,
and mother?
I have no idea where she went.
