memory

it might have been disappointment that

gave flight

to that lava hot burner

across that cold  kitchen 

or anger 

but it was my mother

who stood her ground

by the stove

handle in hand

as the nearly molten discus crash landed

short of its mark

at my father’s unsure feet 

its circle brand smoking itself

into worn linoleum

acrid uncertainty

hanging in the air 

a half century later

though the house may be cinders

caved into its foundation

the taste of burnt linseed oil

smoldering cork

and an uncertain future 

still remain 

Barry DeCarli

May 31, 2012

©2012 Barry DeCarli