in the kitchen
my chiseled father is in the kitchen
reading the newspaper
to my mother
cigar stories and the score from last nights game
he never bets on anything
my mother stirs vegetables and swishes water through her teeth
my father walks on fifty year old feet across the linoleum, pausing
to watch my mother's wrist and hand guiding the spatula
he rests his body on the chair.
moments like flattened breath
or lemonade with too little sugar...we sit at the table
a less than holy Trilogy
with our forks scraping at our Tepco plates
they eat fish and vegetables and i do not
each screech of metal on clay
sounds like someone dying
and later, cleaning, my mother leans over the stove
to wipe off a counter
her fingers curling around the washcloth
with red and white checks
just like the material of a dress she wore
so long ago
Copyright 1998 EAK
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Email: elmosg@hotmail.com