On That Lonely Table Poem by RIC BASTASA

when i entered the house of
grandpa
grandma watched my every
step

she was strict. each gesture
must have a reason,
each step must be according
to a tradition

which she had no power to break
but had always upheld
and to which i have had the moment
to judge her
that she was unhappy even in the
last hour of her life, truly

grandpa loved her but like other
men, he had his own love stories
to tell, escapades that grandma
knew but never talked anyway,
since that was part of the
macho code,
that a good man
must have had more experiences
than a woman,

philandering was acceptable,
more children, more happiness
and the woman stayed in the house
doing the cooking and the praying
and the patience
to love the man who had always
betrayed her,

back to grandma, she invited me
to eat dinner,
and i had problems with the rituals,
of spoon and fork, of this saucer and
that china, that porcelain where soup
was served like a

precious liquid which i should not
sip sounding like a faucet
which made me feel that my brain
was going to the drainage
of cockroaches deprived of self-esteem

she watched how i placed my hands
on the table
and i was already conscious how to eat
and not satisfy my hunger
it was not the embarrassment but it was the
hatred about hypocrisy

from that i learned to love papa more
who taught me well, and which i could not forget,
that to eat with my
own bare hands
was like fondling my own penis
where ejaculation comes naturally and
without any guilt at all.

grandpa was quiet and firm
his stoic silence was more honest
than grandma's
well arranged words which
were like all her gadgets
of etiquette
on that lonely table.