The Shame Behind the Doors

The Shame Behind the Doors

We don’t say much at gatherings,

just pass the plates, nod at the past,

a glance too long and something shifts,

the air turns thick,

you would feel it too?

Who actually knows?

Only Uncle Fred, and Aunty Maura,

great Aunt Beth, us.

Just a handful holding secrets tight,

words folded deep

like promises kept wrong.

Oh My Words.

It matters more than they admit,

you’d think we all forgot the key,

but someone keeps it, quietly,

as if it’s theirs,

as if it’s clean.

Three boys, one mother’s blood alone,

not one man’s name to claim them all,

but still they wait,

for the man with money gone,

to claim what’s left behind.

The Dad who had no idea.

One word, and all the china breaks,

old voices rise, the years unmask,

the truth is not a welcome guest,

not here,

not when no one dares to ask.

Not even sure if more than Uncle Fred

and Aunty Maura know,

oh and us, and Great Aunt Beth

but that is enough to keep it peaceful?

It’s enough to cause an uproar

after the man with the money’s death.

Maybe the next gathering I predict a riot ha ha