Free Entry 2, Week 3

(Draft 2)
(formally The Clubhouse)

Over Dinner

Your mother hollered at us in thick German.
Dumplings for dinner and your Father, his cigar
smelling of straw, loaded the table.
Parakeets pestered us from the other room,
the dog licked my knees, you whispered
to your mother over the turnips about the stain

in your underpants. Macht nichts,
she gurgled, mouth full of dumplings, you’ll be
woman now. Your father forked another pea
as he quelled a cough, your mother carried on:
My Mutter stuck my panties to pole and put in yard

for whole village to see that I was woman.
Her broken English reminded me of that day
in your clubhouse. We both worn yellow jumpers,
I sported a ribbon, sliding down my braids.
You pounded a nail into the roof and etched:
I druved this here. When I told you druved

should be drove you hurled my doll across the room
and pelted me with calm insults. So, today
at the table when your father jabbed his napkin
in his glass and dabbed his wrinkled, sweating
brow, you smashed a turnip with your fist
just to force him to speak. But there was nothing.
Not even a stop or not at the table or please, the guest.

Later, that night we climbed once again
into your clubhouse and then holding hands,
we began to recite: Lord, grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change… Serenity,
which in German I heard means ailment.