We dine en famille, dressed in

silent Sunday distress

united in hunger if nothing less

as the adolescent shadows close

our faces in candlelight since it is

past five on a wintry night.

How easily Father holds down the

heavy roast with a carving knife

he steeled himself as we four

are held at this table, neatly

tucked and buttoned like the

parsleyed beast, obedient for the hour.

Then the little one knocks the salt

shaker over. Our silence is broken,

our voices simmer. Shush now!

says our mother, let’s say

Grace before dinner.

We bow our heads to bless this

food, our hands clasped

flesh to flesh for which we are

grateful, in sideways glances and

the rolling of eyes, we give thanks

for the dinner, the fragrance

of lilies, the bonds that should tie,

in the name of our hunger,

AMEN!

The opera on the radio

covers the vinegar of our banter,

overwhelming the ears so that

nobody listens but each of us

hears the condescension;

We stuff ourselves on

yams with brown sugar

and garlicked green beans,

sweet savory calories

that don’t satiate our need

to be connected to each other,

a family out of rhythm

fearful of trust, our sense of

unity a pull and toss although

Mother has softened us

with the promise of pie

on the sideboard,

just out of reach. Tantalizing,

still warm and heavy

with peach.

It will take more effort to clean up

this feast than it did to produce it,

and the happiest resident may be

the dog under the table, content with

the blunders from above,

for one thing is certain:

it is the dog that we love.

Lissa Staples calls Denver home where it sometimes snows in June. She is a classical singer by training. Her work can be found in The Write Launch, Emerge Literary Journal (as E. Grierson), East by Northeast, and Unbroken.