《pears for breakfast》tears for brunch

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you can tell me when to stop pouring

when to smile and say thank you

i've got my best dress on today

and there's bacon sizzling in the pan

and liquid splatters in the pan

hissing like a threat to

sear off your skin

if you get a millimeter close to my plate

we're gathered around the dining room table

a tepid prayer circle over scrambled eggs

the toast is a bit dry and

the tea is a lot dull

but i laugh where i'm supposed to and

cry when my hands can hide it

mother always keeps a knife under her tongue

just in case she needs to cut the ham or someone else's hands in defense of someone

but she also keeps valleys in her eyes

i huddle in them like a little soldier

after days in the trench

'cause after all

afternoon hasn't begun

and morning has already ended

this no mans land of wasted space

has left us all a bit

conflicted

and a lot confused

when do we wash the dishes?

have i got the spine to take out the trash?

did anyone eat the casserole?

or do we have to keep it

for an indeterminate amount of time

just to throw it away two weeks later?

i will not stand for this 11 o'clock tragedy

so i will sit in the puddle of dishwater and tears

at the bottom of the kitchen sink

a/n: i sip timidly. it tastes like salty coffee. holidays are weird like that.

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