The Mother Ate Standing Up (Self-Sacrificial)

Lyrics

The battle is over by seven fifteen. A truce of full stomachs.
The plates in the sink wear the ghosts of the gravy, a greasy film.
From the living room, the blue light of the television argues with itself. A car chase, maybe.
He's reading the sports page, a rustle of newsprint.
The children are building a fort from the good cushions, the ones from her mother.

And the mother ate standing up.
Her hip against the cool edge of the counter.
Her plate on the Formica, a map of what was left over.
The chicken was cold. The potatoes were tired, a little gray at the edges.
This was not a tragedy. It was the physics of the house. It was dinner.

She remembers serving the two drumsticks first. An automatic gesture, like breathing.
She passed the basket with the last warm roll to the boy, watched his small hands tear it open.
Her story about the woman at the market, old Mrs. Gable with the funny hat, was interrupted by a spill of milk, a white tide across the vinyl.
The story was never finished. The milk was cleaned up. Mrs. Gable is forgotten.

And the mother ate standing up.
Her hip against the cool edge of the counter.
Her plate on the Formica, a map of what was left over.
The chicken was cold. The potatoes were tired, a little gray at the edges.
This was not a surrender. It was the physics of the house. It was Tuesday.

The spoon in her hand is worn smooth as a river stone. A silvered tongue from a wedding set, nineteen ninety-one.
It knows the hard plastic chair in the children's ward, that long week in December of '98. Stirring lukewarm soup from a vending machine.
It knows the bottom of the pot, scraped for one more serving for an unexpected guest.
What was her name before all this? The girl who painted landscapes in watercolor?
She put the brushes in a jar, under the sink, with the silver polish and the poison for the ants.

She rinsed the plate under cold water. Wiped the counter with a damp cloth, chasing the last few crumbs.
The crumbs went into her palm, a small, gritty offering, then into the bin.
The kitchen light clicked off. A final, quiet period on the day.
In the other room, the fort had collapsed into just cushions again.