Donald Anthony Whidden
She holds me on her lap, embracing with
Her arm and hand my young boy ribs and blue
Pajamas. It’s become a monolith—
This portrait—packed with family meaning, true
Or not. My brother leans against his dad,
A cheek against that dark wool shoulder blade,
And father separates her from the sad
Resentment coded there, a barricade
Between the hidden hatred in the smile
That Donald gives and Helen with her hair
All twisted, a permanent set with bile
That son will carry on applying, bare
As any hatred known to mothers, sons
And families, till they are skeletons.