Cab Sauv #6 on Christmas Eve
Burgundy syrup in their heaviest crystals
Swollen, sloshing guts
Sloshing from shaking cabinets, rattles, wailing infants
They all recall, but won’t recant.
A glass falls on the white carpet, and
It bounces like a crash test dummy, and rolls, and stops
Conscious of Mom looming—
Mom always bought white carpets but became enraged when they were stained—
Conscious of Mom screaming—
Hundreds of frames of Mom screaming—
Everyone gulps ‘til they can’t stomach more—
The shards—the shards won’t wash down—
Mom orders more white carpet.
Now the mouths are stained, gaping
Wielding thrumming uvulas
Metronomes of lost patience
The old, red clock that clicked its tongue when Dad still wasn’t home
Mom’s pacing rubber slippers wagging their tongues, too
Bloody teeth needing more flesh to sink into—
Bloody from bitten gums.
Bladders beckon the bathroom—
The bathroom with the decorative towels
That cover wall holes
Where Daughter #1 hid her marijuana.
Mom yelled when Dad dried his hands with her decorations.
Dad protested that towels should not be decorative—
Protested in a special language
Of distant thumps
And bruises smeared with makeup
And Daughter #1 hid more marijuana
And Mom bought more decorative towels.
Son wanted to run, but only knew
How to run to the bathroom.
Daughter #2 read books
About a little, white rat
Who blew a whole house down:
A whole house
In a baby’s brain.