Forks scrape quiet on cold turkey

Forks scrape quiet on cold turkey,

steam rising in lazy curls

that don't carry the words we don’t say.

Father’s jaw tight, lips pressed

into a line sharper than knives.

No toast rises, no thankful sigh.

The stuffing untouched, a silent testament

to all the things that linger

between us like stale crumbs

on cracked plates and empty chairs.

We sit, circling the silence

like it's the last piece of something,

talking in glances,

in the space where conversation

used to live.