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The Silent Meal

Poetry on The Things We Can't Say Out Loud

By Michelle Liew Tsui-LinPublished 8 months ago • 1 min read
The Silent Meal
Photo by Nima Naseri on Unsplash

Even forgotten, she remembers.

šŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸž

The potatoes on a plate,

Crispy as you like them.

He no longer recalls asking.

šŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸž

"How was work?" I ask.

He sees them and nods.

We both pretend you answered.

šŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸž

You used to be a rock,

Solid, grounded, sturdy--

Reliable.

šŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸž

Now, a sharp stone.

šŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸž

Moss-covered.

šŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸž

Painful.

šŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸž

I silence the jabbing pain

Of the pricks

As you roll.

šŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸž

The words that sting.

Your loud rage.

šŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸž

Instead, I fry

Your potatoes.

Bake your bread.

šŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸž

So I sit

With you

Waiting for you

To tell me

That you know me.

šŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸž

You whisper a name--

Not mine.

šŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸž

But I have

Your eyes.

Your love for the Rolling Stones.

šŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸž

For these, I fry

Your potatoes,

Brew your coffee

šŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸž

And sit,

Waiting

šŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸž

With a

Quiet

Whisper

"Dad"--

For you

To hear.

šŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸžā˜•šŸ„šŸ§ˆšŸÆšŸ„„šŸ§ƒšŸ§‡šŸ„“šŸŠšŸ³šŸ„”šŸž

Original poem by Michelle Liew. AI tags are coincidental.

inspirational

About the Creator

Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin

Hi, i am an English Language teacher cum freelance writer with a taste for pets, prose and poetry. When I'm not writing my heart out, I'm playing with my three dogs, Zorra, Cloudy and Snowball.

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Comments (8)

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  • Dana Crandell8 months ago

    Beautifully written.

  • Mother Combs8 months ago

    šŸ’™

  • C. Rommial Butler8 months ago

    Well-wrought!

  • Beautiful sadness

  • Sean A.8 months ago

    Heartbreaking, brought tears to my eyes

  • A lovely and very real poem, thankyou for sharing xx

  • Oooo, this sure was emotional. Loved your poem!

  • Sandy Gillman8 months ago

    I can really feel the pain of presence and absence at the same time here, it also made me a little hungry lol.

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