Empty Chairs

In the name of the father
and of the son, but what of
the daughters, sisters, mothers?

It’s an Italian woman’s trick
to look just so, ears sealed.

Like a bitter clerk
you tally your inventory
of grievances that never age.

Your discontent starts with
the women of this house.

Your woes echo
on the cold enamel kitchen table.

Over veal cutlets and salad,
biscotti, espresso,
wine from the cellar.

Our father no longer speaks,
crawls from bed to table
to couch, eyes and ears alert.

Orphan, farmer, father,
You nail him for his biggest crime —
failing to measure success in dollars.

Your chilling condemnations
insipid, duplicitous, vain—
sisters who cannot be trusted.

And their progeny are suspect.
Only you gave birth to a prince.

We are the serfs who dance
to the beat of our father’s pain,

Take notes when doctors lie,
wash fecal-spattered sheets,
count the place settings,

Remove the empty chairs.