The Measuring Cup

A Poem by Kelley Quinn

The same day

my nephew tells me he loves

me, my father breaks a

measuring cup.

My barefoot mother

stands in the

corner of the

kitchen.

I run into the room,

asking if they're okay.

My father’s hand whips

out, hits me hard and

cold on the shoulder.

Get the hell out,

he says, his voice

damp with anger.

I knock his hand away.

His voice hurts harder

than my shoulder.

I was just trying

to help,

I say, but he never

listens.

In the living room,

my sister ignores

her child.

She wears the

shirt of some other

man. I can smell

his cologne.

My nephew

crawls over me,

repeating

why

He has no further question -

the word alone is enough.

I hear the whispered hissing

between my parents -

their voices rise

like the growing scream

of a teapot.

I hope my nephew is

too young to distinguish

the scrapes of the broom

needles from my father’s

low curses.

We’re out of soap,

My sister complains.

A simple statement

on any other day,

but it’s 3 days before

the new year and

we won’t make it.

The yelling starts slowly,

like a gas leak.

If you would just

help out for once!

My mother screams.

Help me. Help your son.

My other sister grabs

the little boy

and swings him out of

ear shot,

but it’s too late.

He doesn’t cry.

He lifts a small

hand to his small

cheek, but nothing

falls.

My mother reaches out

to soothe him, but the

tears break like boiling water,

rolling off the rim of

his eyelids, landing

harsh and wet on his chest.

I go with my sister

to take him upstairs,

trying hard to smooth the

callouses in his memory.

He crawls into my lap

and I let my apologies

embrace him because

my hands are too tired.

I'm sorry that his mother doesn’t love

him, not like we do.

I apologize that we’re all too broken.

That we’re not good enough for him.

His soft, little arms

grab hold of mine and

he says my name.

I look at him.

I love you!

He says and smiles

the way only a three year old can:

eyes shut tight and with his

tongue slightly pushed out.

He’s honest and innocent

and he doesn’t understand

how much I needed that.

I try and clear the cobwebs

from my throat, but I can’t.

The words are not enough.

Instead, I hug him tight.

When I walk back downstairs,

my mother tells me to take

a plate downstairs.

I open the door to the basement

where my grandparents live,

holding the cherry breeze pie.

I crack open their bedroom door and see

my grandmother rubbing slow

circles into my grandfather’s

speckled back, pockmarked

like the moon, craters from cancer.

I set the plate on their nightstand

and close the door.

I try to climb the stairs, but

my body needs sleep.

I lie down. I collapse.

I let the hot tears run quick down my face,

pooling into my hands until there’s

enough to drink.

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Featured Review

Glass Heart Inc

This is a sad poem. Obviously. But I like how you portrayed how messed up many families really are on the inside. The helplessness is overwhelming because there is nothing you can do about it. You try to keep the peace but you can't... Very good and interesting poem. :)