Poetry by Sophia McCurdy
Scuffing feet along the floor/ the hard line of an old, garage-sale chair/ breakfast without bird-chirping
I get up to grab the butter dish/ it’s all heavy and guilty and slipping around in my hands
You grab the knife/ you spread the butter/ your toast gets all buttery and soft and mean
The dishes on the table were once my
grandma’s/ five bowls, five teacups, five saucers
four lily-shaded plates/
Your toast looks just like the missing fifth plate which my
grandpa threw against a wall, a yellow-papered wall, a plate-smashed-against wall, a wall right next to my grandma’s head
I clink teeth with the edge of my cup/ I consider my options
To throw, to eat, to smash, to beg/
You keep eating your damn toast.
Every bite/ I am more convinced/ I can feel the butter knife in my
guts/ twisting, always twisting/ always you twisting
Asking me to scrub the dishes/ you use your father’s voice/ grandpa’s voice
I’ll put my hands in that scalding, red water/ I’ll use my mother’s hands/ I’ll use my grandma’s lily-scented soap
I’ll sweep, I’ll sew the tear in the living room curtains, I’ll paint the bedroom yellow
I’ll grab the butter/ you’ll throw the fourth plate
You’ll yell with your father’s voice
I’ll cry with my grandma’s lungs in my
chest
I’ll hide the last three plates
