The Third Option

The microwave door is a dark, warped pane

reflecting the line of my jaw in the light.

My mother is sharp and my father is rain,

and they’ve been at the kitchen table all night.

He sinks into silence, she cuts with a word,

and the grocery receipt is a scrap on the floor.

I’m making the face of a man who hasn't heard,

a mask that I’ve seen on his face twice before.

In the sink, the dinner plates lean in a stack,

submerged in a water that’s greasy and cold.

I’m watching the way that my own skin pulls back

into patterns of living I didn't want to hold.