I did not keep the belt buckle

What traditions have you not kept that your parents had?

shined like a relic,

or the way his voice

turned holy when drunk.

I did not keep the gallon jug of wine-

his communion-

nightly, without shame.

I did not keep the guessing game:

what version of him

would come through the door.

I did not keep spaghetti on the ceiling,

or the sound it made

when it missed the wall

and found my back.

I did not keep

knees on linoleum,

gathering noodles

like sins I hadn’t earned.

I did not keep

the shape of fear

learned in bedrooms

where no one knocked.

I did not keep

the silence

that let it happen.

And I did not keep her either-

Aqua Net helmet,

Dipity-Do shell.

The scent of Valium and Johnny Walker

rising from her bathrobe

like ritual steam.

Virginia Slims burning down

in the ashtray beside

the unopened mail.

Everything’s fine.

Nothing’s wrong here.

The house on fire,

and her voice lacquered

with denial.

She turned the blind eye

and called it mothering.

She said,

“Don’t tell your father.”

She said,

“He didn’t mean it.”

I did not keep that.

I broke the plate.

I left the room.

I let the silence rot.

I call no man Daddy.

I call no pain sacred

unless it turns to medicine.

I carry no shrine

for their rituals.

I bury them.

Salt the ground.

Refuse to name the inheritance.