Passing the Gravy

Are you still writing? my aunt asked the air

above my head, then looked at her spud.

The table is heavy with things we don't dare

to bring to the surface. It’s thick in the blood,

this habit of chewing until we are quiet.

I watched a cold pea roll around on my plate,

a green little planet in a beige, buttery riot.

Nobody’s happy. Everyone’s late

to the point of the story. The turkey is dry.

We pass the salt like we’re passing a grudge.

I want to stand up and ask her why

but I just take a bite of the chocolate fudge.

The silverware's clinking is the only real talk.

We’re all just waiting for the walk to the block.