Oblong table, grandma at one head
and the kids and parents all on Chili
with cheese, theology and consequence
hanging from the chandelier like decorative
eggs, over the spoon-beatings the youngest
gives her beans and meat.
The pull of corrupting influence,
our matriarch nodding about "bad influences
tainting" like sour cream in good chili
or bits of peppers, why are there always
peppers, gross, eventually becoming a
veritable morass that sucks one into it,
the family that prays together.
Catching on, in the dining room, not-as-little
sister observes sagely that it's always good to avoid
sucking morasses, if there were a corner, mother's
look says, you'd be standing in it. Grandma
continues, unabated, eating, littlest sister continues
failing to stir. At some point someone says "you guys!"
And the theology still hangs from the chandelier
they put in my alotment of upcoming testaments;
you don't have to carry it with you, but you'll
have to come back and get it some day, this black
and white, bound-by-the-holders of your silverware,
finish the cold chili and face whether this is
the dish you'll serve to your own-- wait, sucking morass
gah, ugh. Duh. So bad.