“To Our Family Name”

“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!