Evening at the Bakery

The pestle held loosely in my hands, sunset bathing the bakery
in golden pink hues. The cat wrinkled toward my father.
Time proved once again that families frozen in place were left
yelling for comfort, a generational curse. As I walked back
toward the barn, the hospital stays led me to cerulean illusions,
spices ground in my imagination to keep boredom at bay.
The usual explanation was to survive. Parents signal to each other
with arms twisted behind their backs to curdle the milk.
The two were distant tonight. Our next meal varied between
water & ancestral sickness uncured with chicken soup.
I put the blade away. The wall didn’t stop broken glass from
ricocheting toward my torso, a clean cut. Tomorrow was
our busiest night too. I stood in place. The feline’s flitting
complexion in the mirror jumped in my direction. My parents
smashed their verbal ingredients together. This time, I
was their whisk. Nothing held back from our ears: festering secrets,
like rabies dripping out of foaming mouths, settled suppression
thick with dust, suspended in air. Fresh memories imprinted on our bodies,
& screams only made my sister hold her doll tighter. Always,
they used fear, fermenting more ticking time bombs as their legacy.