Gloom Party For a Cock Tale Holiday
I find more than just specks of myself in my parent's
crusted smiles
and 'that sausage is for guests' frigid laughter
as mom slaps my hand away
while dad answers the door he detests
every neighbor
twisted into 'you're a scavenger' smirk
with a tilt of his head
Our entire family is embedded
in the carpet and chex mix.
Mom's wig shuttles further down her forehead
as the party gets more raucous
Lipsticked cigarette butts are ground into ashtrays
Sister and I suck down the remnants of discarded
Whiskey Sours
while adults incarnate a glassy stare
look right through us
their mouths still in motion
oval like caves
activated by the misery
of silence
Dad doesn't notice when mom disappears
Mom doesn't notice when dad's hand disappears
inside the landscape of Mrs. Taylor's sunset.
Sister and I grab a pack of Salem's, a bottle of gin
and stagger through the exaggerated powdery smiles
saturating suburbia
without a trace
up to our room
Meg Tuite's writing has appeared in numerous journals including MadHatter's Review, Epiphany, JMWW, One, the Journal, Monkeybicycle and Boston Literary Magazine. She has been nominated several times for the Pushcart Prize. She is fiction editor of Santa Fe Literary Review and Connotation Press, author of Domestic Apparition (2011) San Francisco Bay Press, Disparate Pathos (2012) Monkey Puzzle Press, Reverberations (2012) Deadly Chaps Press, Implosion and other stories (2013) Sententia Books and has edited and co-authored The Exquisite Quartet Anthology-2011, stories from her monthly column, Exquisite Quartet published in Used Furniture Review. Her blog: megtuite.wordpress.com.
I find more than just specks of myself in my parent's
crusted smiles
and 'that sausage is for guests' frigid laughter
as mom slaps my hand away
while dad answers the door he detests
every neighbor
twisted into 'you're a scavenger' smirk
with a tilt of his head
Our entire family is embedded
in the carpet and chex mix.
Mom's wig shuttles further down her forehead
as the party gets more raucous
Lipsticked cigarette butts are ground into ashtrays
Sister and I suck down the remnants of discarded
Whiskey Sours
while adults incarnate a glassy stare
look right through us
their mouths still in motion
oval like caves
activated by the misery
of silence
Dad doesn't notice when mom disappears
Mom doesn't notice when dad's hand disappears
inside the landscape of Mrs. Taylor's sunset.
Sister and I grab a pack of Salem's, a bottle of gin
and stagger through the exaggerated powdery smiles
saturating suburbia
without a trace
up to our room
Meg Tuite's writing has appeared in numerous journals including MadHatter's Review, Epiphany, JMWW, One, the Journal, Monkeybicycle and Boston Literary Magazine. She has been nominated several times for the Pushcart Prize. She is fiction editor of Santa Fe Literary Review and Connotation Press, author of Domestic Apparition (2011) San Francisco Bay Press, Disparate Pathos (2012) Monkey Puzzle Press, Reverberations (2012) Deadly Chaps Press, Implosion and other stories (2013) Sententia Books and has edited and co-authored The Exquisite Quartet Anthology-2011, stories from her monthly column, Exquisite Quartet published in Used Furniture Review. Her blog: megtuite.wordpress.com.