The Talk

It is an act of politeness to sit
at the table. It is polite to be silent

and hear her mother speak. There are
questions she thinks she must answer.

She is so polite that she has to answer
the questions. But the sound of her mother's

voice is just pressure, prying, will,
wanting to know what's in this child

as one would press down hard, then pull
up on an object that refuses to move.

It must matter to her mother, her politeness.
But really, her closed face and the heavy way she sits,

only make her mother madder.
This is an act of will. Her mother

will not stop talking, she will not stop not listening, being
unable to listen, until she's dismissed.

The only movement permitted is an internal collapse, the house
of cards gone flat, the slick printed

covers hiding all color
slapped face down on the floor.

the silk of the lampshade splits slightly above her mother's
head. Already the child

walks down the hall, released
to her bed, the conveyor-belt dream

moving toward her open mouth, bringing on the hot fat chunks of
steaming meat.


Susan Pliner

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