The Local Police Report

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At sixteen, I’m listening 
to the sounds of a fractured frame house: 

my older sister sobbing 
over hard news 
about a religious leader she has long admired, 

and Mother saying absolutely nothing 
so deliberately 
the whole neighborhood can hear. 

She’s ripping worn towels into rags, 
twisting from them dirtied water, 

scouring previously perfect patterns 
from the kitchen linoleum, 
and in such swift circles 
veins I didn’t know she had 
pop up and scowl. 

To the tune of Eileen’s sorrow, 
she scrapes picked-over food 
into the smelly trash, 
fork tines squealing against plates, 

then turns to bludgeon the risen white dough. 
She chops carrots, potatoes, celery 
with her sharpest steel knife, 
and skins the onions. Oh, the many onions 
she drops, tears splashing, 
into the boiling pot.