“Alcoholism” by Jaime Oesterling
Our kitchen table is a mosaic of memories.
Pink and purple playdough speckles the splintering grooves
made deeper by children who were silent.
Bits of frosted flakes and miniwheat grains
are crushed into the yellow caulk
that matches the color of your skin.
Near the head of the table
a broken wine glass covers years of red wine stains.
No one forgot they were there,
but we hid them the best we could.
Across from the stains, rays of sunlight shine
through the window onto a small patch of tiles
kept white by the Bible Mom once read.
I laughed when you covered our table,
with a red, plastic cloth and tried to bury
a life that you would not remember,
if your ghosts weren’t still alive.