Family Meal

He told us over dinner one evening
In between mouthfuls of pork chop
Said he had cancer, calm and distanced
Like it was our great uncles cousin.

Of course mother knew, the way she
Lowered her fork, heavy yet slow.
It was the first time I’d seen her elbows
Rest upon the table, hands together
Fingers entwined, like a nun in prayer.

Our Steve began to cry. His blue eyes
Lost behind great exaggerated sobs
It wasn’t the talk of cancer
He cried for the silence, for the unnatural
Mood that hung above us
Like smog over a country field.
.
Sounds unheard since mothers first borne
Seeped out from the silence
The thud of the clocks hand echoed
Hidden timber creaked with age
.The possibility of death
Whispering from within the walls

We left the table like strangers
Dispersing upon our own private grief.
All that we had taken for granted
Was scraped away with the remains of the meal.

Later that evening they washed up together;
Only when father dropped a plate
Did my mother, picking up the shattered pieces
Begin to cry.