Why I Sang at Dinner

I was not permitted a word at dinner
because you were too hot from laying
brick in the sun to bear the voices
of children, and mother too tired
to oppose you. My sister and brother,
five and six years older, had graduated
in allowance to one sentence
and on your good days two.
Sometimes I ventured a phrase
but you pushed me down quick.
"You no speak. You have no responsibility."
The r in responsibility you would hit
with a rough Portuguese trill.
Your own father used to beat you
with a rope until you bled.
You vowed never to repeat this.
You had no need.

Still, I wanted to loosen the knot
between your brows and find
a soft place within you.
I watched how playing your accordion
for hours into the night soothed you.
Above the keys in gleaming silver
cursive was written Excelsior.
Since the accordion weighed too much
to pick up I began to sing—
often in the middle of dinner.
Slenderly, I quavered out tunes
you liked from Lawrence Welk.
Sometimes I just sang Excelsior.
No one said anything.

How could they?
I continued without looking up.
You neither stopped me nor softened.
One evening when I was thirteen I gave up.
My new male voice was starting to break in
and I couldn’t care anymore.

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