At The Table (Poetry)

Mealtimes were tied to the stroke of the clock
seated so rigid, unspeaking, we chewed
mouths closed, elbows in, with no clatter of knives
eyes fixed on our plates, all intent on the food.

Home cooking, traditional, plain but nutritious
no one complained, not a word out of place
but ate every morsel, remembered their manners
yet no sign of pleasure on anyone’s face.

Bare kitchen chairs, wooden, uncomfortable
were ordeal enough, made it hard to sit still
as minutes ticked by and silence stretched palpable
awkward, the space felt forbidden to fill.

The room held its breath, caught sharp and unbearable
a terrible tension locked into the scene
and building between them — my mother and father —
some swallowed resentment — a bloody red scream.