At Kitchen Tables
I loved the farm in the most unruly way
I used its dirt and biked on its hills
I hid in its corners and gathered rocks from its floor
I cried in its rain
And sank in its mud
I got hit with its sticks and bled on its core
I was drowned in its isolation
And fished in its waters
I coughed out its tragedy
And rummaged in its generational trash
I danced with its ghost and felt the pain of its slumbers
I ran barefoot on gravel and fell asleep in its trees
I watched knives cut skin and belts bruise
I felt trauma in all its aspects
And kneeled down for a savior
I worked
Forced to stay up at kitchen tables for screams
Yelling
Don’t you dare fall asleep
I plastered deer feet
I played baseball
Ate pears
And ran for my life
I grew to prefer independence
My outside demeanor got hard
My innocent trust disappeared
And I knew
I wasn’t part of this family
4 thoughts on "At Kitchen Tables"
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Very rich piece– you’ve treaded autobiographical territory and made claim to both your past and your present.
Powerful end.
Lines rotate between the use of speech/breath and quite earthy activity:
Lovely!
Love these details and the repetitions – beautifully resonant
Love “generational trash.”
Love this poem and can’t wait for the new collection!
The new collection.
Yes