Kitchen Table

With six of us, it had benches on either side,
chairs at the head and foot.
We aligned three on each bench,
parents in each of the two thrones.
For weekly pork chops and lasagna
I always had elbows in my ribs,
butter from Julie’s bread
making its way onto my sleeve.

But when I could
I would sprawl on a bench,
cool in the summer A/C
on my bare scrawny legs.
They would remind me of the therapist
who said I stuff things.
Christy, you are being a clam, just talk to us.
With tears and convulsing shoulders, I’d repeat,
I just don’t know, I just don’t know.
At the end I would wind up
ear to my dad’s heartbeat.
He would pet my black hair and say Shhhh.

I was the producer of dramas,
the screenwriter and director.
To sit on the cool bench,
no shared DNA on either side of me,
no butter on my sleeve,
was the like having her uterus all to myself
with his hand on her belly as I kicked.