The wine glass rested downside upon a hardback book

Overlooked by some but not by me

I was not stubbornly knitting

Ignoring the world with my head in the sand

I was not a coward.

While mother kept knitting her stupid blanket

I was required to set the oak table.

While she drank and waxed poetic about sunflower seeds

And how useful they are

I did not have that luxury.

My nail chipped as I sliced cheddar cheese

My siblings waiting hungrily

And while I could have just left

Abandoned this life for a satchel and bread

I dashed my dreams for space upon the pavement,

Cared for children in Mother’s place.

I respected the books and hid the wine,

And took the blame when fault was not mine.

Mother K. Mooney may I please go now?

I’m still trapped here beneath the wine glass

Atop the ruined hardback.