The Patriarch

My favorite drink is the pink
lemonade before grandpa crushes
the pitcher. Fistfuls of plastic shimmer
like wet sand when they fall
from his hand,
to the counter,
to the floor.

My favorite sound is the drowned
voice of grandma, finding shore
past his riptide. Her words tread
lightly, tread water, sink in:
it’s not your fault,
don’t blame yourself,
he’s not mad at you.

My favorite sight is the white
room crowned blue by the TV
on mute. Static bubbles through
the gap beneath the door
he slams back like Jack Daniels
for days before he’ll say:
Sorry about your drink.

My favorite dish is the hiss
of “Claire’s Potatoes,” screaming hot,
leaving scorch marks on the tablecloth.
Me and grandma take turns
letting cheese and starch
burn our soft palates
before it gets cold.

***

Zoë Spanbroek is a writer from the southeast coast of Florida. She is pursuing an MFA in poetry at the University of South Florida, and she holds a BA in Environmental Studies from Florida Gulf Coast University. Her work has appeared in The Mangrove Review and The Pegasus.