Knife at the Burnt Edge

Turkey sliced uneven,

charred where the heat forgot

or maybe punished—

the knife waits.

Around the table,

words throttle, biting hard,

somewhere between turkey gravy

and the stale breath of canned green beans.

Father’s gaze is a cracked window,

looking out where no one stands,

nobody dares, or wants to, break the silence.

The roast cools,

unyielding as the pause.

And the empty plates tell the story

no one swallows.