In the kitchen, Father slices
the sirloin, a big bloody slab,
one of the best cuts, he would boast,
even though I know we can only afford it
because he brings it home from his store.
 
His slicing is slowed by the gristle
and I can feel his irritation, with Mother
yelling at him to cut thinner slices,
to make sure the blood
doesn’t drip off the carving board,
 
mentioning, at the slightest provocation,
that she could have married the optometrist
but her father told her she wasn’t attractive
enough, and besides, she was getting old,
needed children, too many of us killed in Europe.
 
Father is quiet, absorbed
in the back-and-forth rhythm of his arm,
and I will learn that he knew enough
to let my mother yell, that at some point
she would go into the bathroom, sometimes
 
for hours, always leaving the light on
so I could see it leaking under the door,
even though I would never be able to save her,
something Father always knew, basic,
like making sure the blood wouldn’t drip on the floor.