“To Our Family Name”
Clink.
Glasses chime together,
a discordant choir,
the hands of the grandfather clock sluggishly turn.
Clink,
Clink,
Clink.
“To our family name,”
my mother says, honoring a family of crooks and liars,
with the spilling of champagne flutes.
In the light her ring finger,
the nail chipped and bleeding,
on a throbbing finger that is swollen and boily,
her fifth rusted wedding ring glows.
Clink!
My brother laughs,
“A lovely handpiece, a Greek tragedy if I’ve ever seen one,”
from his maw a pink stub wiggles about,
the cutting of his silver tongue never muffled his honeyed jabs.
Clink!
My uncle smiles back,
a three-fingered hand,
a hand cloaked in jingling bracelets and sparkling rings,
slinks to his side.
Its red,
the stolen velvet box,
matching the rosy bloody stumps,
that replaces a thumb and an index digit.
Clink!
The head of a wine glass chimes against mine,
too much force is applied.
Crack!
Mine breaks,
my hands are bloodied,
stained white.
Clink!
But the dinner goes on.
Clink!
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