Silence

Whenever I place the
scuffed steel spoons into
the silverware drawer,

my hands tremble
a little, remembering
when you lurched at me

half-drunk / half-hung over,
with only the refrigerator door
separating me

from your hand a half-inch
from my face.
Your eyes were

black pools of rage.
You, greasy skinned
and pungent of stale beer,

raised your hand so close to my cheek
I could feel its heat. Go ahead,
you hissed,

say one more word,
I dare you. Afterwards, I
continued my chore: the tight lip,

the averted stare.
I took the spoons
from the rack

and tried to lie them in drawer,
in their proper place.
But my hands shook,

the spoons tumbled
over each other, spilling
into the knives, forks,

the corkscrew. Mother grabbed
my hand, asking what's wrong with you?
you're putting them away wrong.

I stepped back and
watched my mother
neaten her scarred dinnerware
with a precision
like silence.