Loud House
Cluttered, noisy, so many beds,
Aunt, grandmother, four kids, one bath.
Our mom, with no beds left,
When the crib was outgrown,
Had to take the youngest into her own
Where the dad would have been;
Feeling the warm wet during the night
Of the sleeping child,
And jumping up to change the sheet.
Shrill, high-pitched, gull-like,
The women spoke all out once-
Arguing, squabbling, fretting, squawking,
Who said what, and when was that,
And whose night was it
To do the dishes anyway?
And then there was Ozzie and Harriet,
Who lived neatly next door.
And Father-Knows-Best with Loretta Young
Down the block, peering grimly
At this display of chaos and disorder
So unable to fold hands primly
And speak softly, in proper,
lady-like fashion.
It was here, and the same year,
that our father had died.
My sister- too smart-
(it all came too easily, the nuns had said)
the General Excellence Award summarily denied.
And we all knew our mother
Had not contributed like the other,
Winning girl’s had,
Of course.
Yet we allowed it.
Closed our mouths.
Withdrew our breath.
That day when the clatter of dishes fell silent
And lay in tall piles in the kitchen sink.
That day, that suddenly oddly quiet day,
When we were entirely
Not loud enough.
