Well, this poem, I think it's a good poem maybe.
Maybe I shouldn't read it but I will.
"Forgive me--" It's Carl--
"But I remember Christmas in our kitchen."
Mother, as your bladder oozes scotch,
your bones splintered and mended by hatred for its own sake
creak and groan as you move, certain of your enemies,
age, men, the house that repeats everything you say in silence.
But I can't help that.
Don't resent me for I'll never be anything
but your little girl, helpless.
While wearing an apron of rage, you basted each turkey
with the barrel of a smoking gun.