Sunday, January 18, 2015

Immoderate Family

The father pouring in the liquor, sucking up the vapor,
folding in his ears, and keeping the tips low
The son yowling with the movie, ripping newspaper, tossing the foods
that touch on the plate, casting spells, frantic gestures at every face...

One pulls what's alien inside him, one pulls worlds out of him, 
both bizarrely tethered to screens, 
or loudly demanding the attention of their shared motherwife...

There's gulping, and gavottes, and plays for the girl...
It's getting desperate, the screens bounce jellied trampolines,
the woman admits she is tired, as her son melds his bony brow 
to her cheekbone, still bruised from last night's antics.
Her husband forgets he was childish. He says what he thinks (again)
and it sinks in her, and then, like a glancing balloon, rises up. 

1 comment:

  1. the last sentence in this poem reminds me of a virgina woolf one