I hear forks clinging against the enamels of Rotten molars and salted tongues. Deep breaths seep out of every crack in the wooden table, And sighs hang themselves (nooses loose) Along the wrought-iron legs. Pepper grains dot the joints of my mother's fingers, Scraping into the meat, As if it were her husband's liver. And my father's beard caked with the voices of an asylum. I, between them, hearing the white noise of potatoes. The striking of the pianos that lay hidden in Napkins made of silk. Tapestries encircle us all, Embroidery singing sweet melodies into ears blocked by history. Coughing, an attempt to let loose the phlegm that plagues those closest to my elbows. The screeching of chairs, And the dirt washed clean from the dishes. A farce, and I laugh like the evening.
Pardon my french, but FUCK, Krystin. I really think I enjoy that one more than anything else you've ever written. I mean, everything I've seen of yours is excellent, but that one really hit a note with me. Just... Everything. You nailed everything.
