by Kelly J. White
You’ve scrambled my skillet, hot peppers, cold hash
sat me down, bound my neck with a napkin;
chop chop in the kitchen, cleaver clunk, sizzling meat—
you spoon clotted cream over goose eggs.
You pour scalded coffee, slap down your knife,
dirty nails, you snap open your paper.
I sip sour milk, salty dregs in my cup
and anger sits down at our tablet.
We’re joined by a daughter scarred with a fire tattoo,
a son with pierced lips and shaved scalp,
a nephew, a niece, both our dead silent fathers
pale strangers that you never knew;
Our baby sits strapped in her splintering high chair,
she chortles, she claps, smacks her lips;
drool drips down her chin, you scrape plates for the dog;
I scarf down our last just desserts.