Unspoken Tensions

The table is set with a careful design,

heaping of dishes, yet something malign.

Voices are muted, like echoes held tight,

where the weight of the unspoken hangs heavy in flight.

Each plate a façade, a gesture to share,

while silence unwinds in the cool, crisp air.

My mother’s last call, a hurried distress,

reveals broken truths wrapped in feigned finesse.

We carve up the turkey, pretend that it’s fine,

each cut a reminder of tensions entwined.