6 O'CLOCK RITUAL

My mother serves us
braised steak and onions
peppered peas, salted potatoes
gravy, thick and smooth
but they dont warm my words;
I am always the one to say the wrong thing'.
'He' stands over me
like a king wave before crashing
and I am too small to measure the distance.
His fist falls short
slams onto the table
sends peas into hiding
among leaves on the tablecloth.
'He' vomits his words over me,
"l'll knock your head fair through that bloody wall".
I know he can
but I dont shrink in the corner, like a coward,
I sit straight, unblinking.
I am his excuse tonight - again.
'He' slams the door and leaves us
to pick our path through guilt, sadness, self-loathing.
Mother gathers the tablecloth
takes it to the garden
shakes away all traces of anger,
resets the table and serves dessert.