Witness
My father owned silence
The way seasons own the trees.
He avoided words,
Used looks, gestures, altered breathing
But nothing dramatic usually.
Emotion is what occurred
At other people’s houses.
I guess that’s why this clings like beggar lice:
After one of many long days when he missed supper
Working two jobs he finally sat down at 9
Before a plate that was four hours old.
I froze in disbelief in the doorway
When he threw a slice of mushy tomato
From his plate at my mother
Standing at the sink
Missed her and hit the just-ironed curtain.
Her stiff back a signboard of rage and hurt,
She didn’t even turn around,
The only sound the splashing of the dishwater
That hid her hands while he ate and
I backed away, backed away from them
Silent witness to their silent witness
The soft heart of the tomato
A blood red flag
By my mother’s head.
