Lassie's Poetry Part 2

Here in the Kitchen

In the warm light, all the little scratches

On our sterling white plates disappear

Together they clatter and crash in my hands

While I set the table for dinner

Silence between harsh words pop my ears

Growing louder on the kitchen tiles

My brother doesn't hear their voices

Quietly echoing from the dark hallway

His headphones have been sewn into his ears

Listening to the reassurances of his future self

The silverware slips from my hands

Screaming in agony as it hits the wooden table

A silence I've known since birth

Washes over the house in one quick wave

My father sits at the head of the table in his chair

No one else sits in his chair except the cat

He checks his phone every few minutes

Lighting up the shadows under his restless eyes

The prongs of my fork create new grooves in the table

I imagine digging the prongs into that chair, his chair

It would scrape deep beneath the soft wood

Splinters becoming flimsy once exposed to the air

My mother's jowls materialize from the weight of worry

And frustration over her missing crucifix

Her signature crease between her eyebrows

Solidifies under the skin of her softening forehead

The prongs of my fork prod into my palm

I can hear her speaking to me now

Her lips pursed with day old lipstick from church

I can hear her clearer than I ever have

Once dinner is finished, I put the dishes away

And my family retreats to their separate secluded countries

It's here in the kitchen when my hand hits the countertop

When no one else can hear me speak my own language

It's here in the kitchen when I grab and yank at the countertop

I don't expect it to budge, it's stubborn like my family

It's here in the kitchen when I tear at the dishtowels

Hoping that the threads will snap under my grip

It's here in the kitchen that my mother sees my knuckles turn white

Staring without a word on her tongue or a gesture in her arms

It's here in the kitchen that my mother walks by me

To check on her marinating chicken for tomorrow

It's here in the kitchen that mother passes me by

And heads down the dark hallway in uneasy silence

It's here in the kitchen I grab the crucifix I stole

From my mother's bedroom, on her bedside table

It's here in the kitchen I strike the crucifix into the ground

The same way an angry god strikes down the liars and nonbelievers

It's here in the kitchen I hold onto the stolen crucifix

Allowing it to burn me and my body alive