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The Family Meal My father loves the big bands, his humming, unseasoned and whisky raw, snakes through the sliver under my door. His feet can tap, but are bent like two old backs, the sad misfortune of an industrial accident. My mother sews and works and always needs, her fingers swallow dust and are good at braiding her fears into my veins. My body is in the raspy inhale of her laugh, bladder deep, until I am the clung tight lining of her throat and belly. I am their yellow-green orange, odd, too tart, not ready for picking. At supper, I pull faceless boys from a hat, an offering of soft crust to chew, swallow and feast upon, between the blood and leaves. I am good at filling the gaping cavity that lies within his hum, and her dust. This way, I never have to explain why I don't get invited to parties or dances anymore. |
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