I.
Dad asks if I will make the stuffing
on Thanksgiving.
Usually he does the whole meal without our help.
He says I’m old enough, he trusts me.
I don’t want to,
but I do it.
Chop the celery, the onions,
methodically, evenly, like he taught me,
but soon my wrist tires,
the smell of turkey sickens me,
all my pieces go jagged.
When I go to do the bread,
it gets burned, curls up,
blackening the bright red pan.
I touch my finger to the heat, unthinking,
it stings for a minute, then forms
a small white planet bubble.
I don’t shred more bread,
don’t run my finger under the water,
I just let it all
burn.
II.
We eat, turkey without stuffing,
Mom, Dad, April,
all pretending
nothing is different.
They ask me questions, I say little.
Not knowing what would come out, if I really spoke.
Not wanting to yell at them, in front of April.
Instead, between bites, I squeeze my burnt finger.
At the end of the meal,
I look down to find my napkin shredded,
like torn clouds on my lap.