The Quiet Meal

The television is a dead eye in the corner.

Across the table, the celery snaps—

a sound like a dry branch breaking

under a heavy, winter boot.

Then the grinding begins.

The wet, slow friction of his jaw

moving through the fiber and the water.

It is the only clock we have left.

I watch the muscle in his temple pulse.

He doesn't look up from the plate.

I just listen to the sound of him staying alive

while the rest of the house waits.