The Genetic Debt

The microwave counts down in green,

a humming box of radiated heat.

I’m watching the window, the brushed steel

distorting my chin into a heavy, dull thumb.

The timer chirps and my left lid jumps,

a quick, involuntary shutter

that used to signal my father’s silence

right before the first plate broke.

It’s a twitch I didn't ask for,

a nervous tic wired into the nerve,

telling me the anger is still in the house,

just waiting for the coffee to finish.