Glass Tables

Eating alone, I fist my fork.
Shovel in mouthfuls. Chew loudly.
I’m thirteen again. Girlfriend’s house.

“Trajiste un perro callejero?”           
                What did she say? Later, at home,

I tell my mother: close your mouth
when you’re chewing, but she doesn’t
understand where I suddenly learned shame.

                And at the time, I didn’t know          
she’d worked so hard to unlearn it

Now, my children mind their sounds,
carrying the embarrassment
I pass to them with the chicken.

And while they sleep off the weight 
shared with them to spare my shoulders,
I sit in a dark dining room. 

hunched over my plate, a low growl
escapes like a first orgasm,
both embarrassment and redress, 

and slips out the window, away         
                like a satisfied dog.