Chicken Dinner

Shame smells like chicken dinner.
It flies across the room
on a pink plastic chair
and cracks against the wall
in a shrill shriek.
The baby who never cries—cries.
Her sister bounds toward the swinging child
in a jolly jumper,
made to make babies laugh.
They swung.
She swung.
I watched them swing.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The sound of a six-year-old unhooking the baby,
pulling her away
from the fury of their mother.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
He’s not coming home again.
The potatoes whipped.
My mind cracked
like the brown skin
on the roast chicken.
I’ve got the baby, Mommy.
Don’t worry, Mommy.
I’ve got the baby, Mommy.
She thinks I’m mad at the crying.
I’m mad at the lying.
God is watching
through long windows.
Savage.
Anger.
A plastic pink chair
with a smiling Care Bear.
He made me mad.
I made them terrified.
I choke
alone
on chicken dinner.