You Know What He's Like

Home is my father
screaming at my mother,
“You shut your dirty fucking mouth,”

so much and so loud
he loses his voice;
and all she can say is,

“You know what he’s like.”

Five words that mark the lines
in chalk
around our Christmas dinner.

Five words to fill a grocery list
of eggshells for a family
history of broken things.

Five words holding a door,
behind it a lifetime
of dishes waiting to shatter.

One sentence: a warning, an aside,
of a hand-me-down tripwire
thin as a father’s temper.

Home is my mother
writing every word
before he can dim the lights.