at the dinner table,

sharp silver clinks in an angry joust,

cacophonous screams

for the ketchup on her blouse.

he is watching.

the peas are lined like soldiers,

words are flung like knives,

no one notices he does not eat—

everyone’s talking about their lives.

they talk of the weather

as if it’s a person they resent,

they talk about him,

as if he’s…

a ghost holding a napkin.

his spine aches—

_leave_.

his soul quivers—

_go_.

his mercurial mouth—

still closed.

no, he does not speak.

instead—

he chews slowly.