The Script

My mother is pouring the wine through a chill,

watching the level rise up to the fill.

She doesn't look up when the back door goes shut,

she just waits for the sting of the usual cut.

My father is walking a line on the rug,

his shoulders pulled up in a permanent shrug.

They aren't even screaming, it’s quieter now,

a long-standing debt and a broken-down vow.

The Merlot is sweating a ring on the wood,

a dark, purple circle where a family once stood.

I’m sitting at the table, just a guest in the scene,

watching the space that has opened between.