Based on the mad libs idea for "Frying Trout while Drunk" by Lynn Emanuel.
Father is yelling to release a hatred
that could cover the potholes with distance:
come with me he hollered and she floundered
in his breath, its warm devastation
where her head swiveled
in the underlines of yesterday.
When I yell it is always 2010,
a song echoing from the radio in an Accord
and father, white knuckled in insults,
leaving a scar from the driver seat
to the passenger of words and spit.
He is a smart, unfortunate man
in cahoots with a woman of green so crisp
you could snort forgiveness through it
and when you did nothing, I would forget to speak.
I remember all of us surrounded at summer,
the light slicing across the table,
and then mother’s napkin hitting the floor,
wrapped chunks of chicken splattering like wine on a white shirt.
When I yell I am too much like him —
the fork in one fist and in the other
the ring with a gleam faded as my iris.
I have wished you all my life
she begged him and it was true
in the same that all his life
he yelled, focused to the want itself,
he arched at this table
and with the hatred of the very quiet
placed in front of him the ring.
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