Leanne Grabel

Toothpicks

Leanne Grabel

My mother detested my father’s toothpick habit. How he probed and poked. Histrionically. High up in his mouth. Distorting his face. Like a cobra. Gulping a rabbit. Spitting pieces of gristle. Right on the tablecloth. Vile. That’s what my mother said. Then. Served us disgust. In the bowls of stewed tomatoes. From the San Joaquin Valley. That he grew. Those tomatoes. That shiny-faced Jew from the Bronx. Starving for cowboy. And farmer. For spaces and stallions. For fanfare and yachts. For oysters and sweetbreads and Cadillacs. Manicures. Big-bellied. Had it. For a second. Then. Lost it. Then. Got it for a second. Then. Lost it. Too mad. Too mean. Too unlucky. He could only hold on to the cars. Always older. A little gaudy. Gold ‘62 Coupe de Ville. Lavender ‘59 Eldorado. Then. My father. Dead a decade. Then. My mother loved her toothpicks. Took a toothpick every meal. Worked it big. Picked big. Like the rest of us. More things seem to stick to my teeth. She’d say. We’d nod. And pick. We’d pick high. In search of brisket gristle. Celery strings. Our lips stretched out. Like broken umbrellas.

Original artwork by Leanne Grabel

Blame

Leanne Grabel

For a long time. I thought it was. Her fault. Not mine. I mean. My mother’s. Not mine. No. Yes. Everything. Then. One day. I knew. It was mine. Yes. Broke open. Like an egg yolk. But still. If it hadn’t been mine. No. My mother’s. To begin with. Though. No. The way he screamed. Enormous anvils in our ears. The way he taught us. To scream. It’s his fault. I’m sifting. Cupping. Scooping air. I’m slapping air. My hand’s exhausted. My whole arm’s exhausted.

Original artwork by Leanne Grabel