artwork: ralph murre
by Marty McConnell ~
when your grandmother mistakes your
girlfriend for a man,
do not rise up over the dinner table
like a sequin tornado
or a burning flag. it is Christmas.
though the forks
curl their tines into tiny silver fists
and the frost-
rimmed windows blink in embarrassment,
focus on your lover
do not rise up over the dinner table
like a sequin tornado
or a burning flag. it is Christmas.
though the forks
curl their tines into tiny silver fists
and the frost-
rimmed windows blink in embarrassment,
focus on your lover
as she clears her throat, extra low, passes the salt
to your grandmother
who thanks the young man with the strange
haircut and delicate
hands. this is no time for declarations and no one’s
seemed to notice
though the milk’s gone solid in the pitcher
and your father
is suddenly fascinated by the unmoving air
in the other room.
your mouths do not move, except
to chew. this is family,
this is holiday, there are no affairs, no
addictions, your family
crest reads in elaborate embroidery
the less said,
to your grandmother
who thanks the young man with the strange
haircut and delicate
hands. this is no time for declarations and no one’s
seemed to notice
though the milk’s gone solid in the pitcher
and your father
is suddenly fascinated by the unmoving air
in the other room.
your mouths do not move, except
to chew. this is family,
this is holiday, there are no affairs, no
addictions, your family
crest reads in elaborate embroidery
the less said,
the better. though your father did offer once
to pay for your therapy
back when no one you knew was in therapy
and there was no way
you were going to talk to a stranger about things
you’d never say
to pay for your therapy
back when no one you knew was in therapy
and there was no way
you were going to talk to a stranger about things
you’d never say
to your mother, even drunk, even on Easter. so
to say something now
to say something now
about what might be a mistake, or just the easiest way
to explain a mohawk
would be bringing sand to the bank. unprofitable
and a little bit
insane. you study your lover’s chin. the tweezers wince
under the sink.
she could be a boy, you think. apocalyptic Christian
emails aside,
maybe your grandmother is progressive. astute
in her own
Southern, incidental way. your voice offering her
the butter is a punk band
playing an abortion clinic. all feedback
and nobody wants you.
she’s your grandmother. she’s nearly 100.
your uncle
took thirty years to get sober. your grandfather died
still owning the manual
to every piece of machinery he’d ever owned.
you still
don’t know how to make any kind of pie.
there are no
family recipes. in the far corner of your liver
to explain a mohawk
would be bringing sand to the bank. unprofitable
and a little bit
insane. you study your lover’s chin. the tweezers wince
under the sink.
she could be a boy, you think. apocalyptic Christian
emails aside,
maybe your grandmother is progressive. astute
in her own
Southern, incidental way. your voice offering her
the butter is a punk band
playing an abortion clinic. all feedback
and nobody wants you.
she’s your grandmother. she’s nearly 100.
your uncle
took thirty years to get sober. your grandfather died
still owning the manual
to every piece of machinery he’d ever owned.
you still
don’t know how to make any kind of pie.
there are no
family recipes. in the far corner of your liver
your other grandmother
looks up from her patient sectioning
of a grapefruit,
offers you a chunk of your own atrophied
tongue, trembling
at the edge of her serrated spoon.
~ first
published in the Beloit Poetry Journal
