Say one wrong thing

and the tendrilly scarf

in Mom's hair, a drippy

green fringe on Dad's hat

spring apart and out jumps

a tiger.

Roar! Pounce, then behind

scarf and fringe the tiger

slinks back. Into a jungle pasted

over with glossy pictures.

Dad with his wispy hair

and arrow mustache.

Mom bright-eyed with

clothes-hanger shoulders.

"Line up, kids.

Now stop giggling."

Roar! Tiger, teeth all around, chomp!

Hop into that straight line,

say "Cheese" and tousle heads

sway left, sway right.

Keep those freckles congruent

and the perfect family smiles.

The tiger hides, itchy eyes and

twitchy jaw, in moss and vines.

Sway left, sway right.

I can keep this up only

so long. Bright smile.

My lips flinch and a

big toe sticks through

my sock. Is that bad?

Roar! Tiger, teeth all around, chomp!

Mom changes the subject, avoidance:

"Cousin Eddy's apple tree is

blooming, sparkling white blossoms!"

Stonewall: "I was standing

right here, nothing happened.

I didn't even see nothing happen."

Strong offense: "You're hypersensitive

and you're dreaming."

The experts confer: "No tigers

live in northern latitudes."

Belittling: "Those teeth marks

aren't very deep."

Denial: "What teeth marks? What blood?"

Brother's slick black hair, my arm,

sister's nose and ear jig together

in a tightly sawn puzzle.

"Your job is to say the one thing

hat won't upset the picture."

Say fab, say glad, say sad, say mad.

Sway left, sway right.

"Make nice-nice to your mother

and smile at the camera."

Tonight? Tomorrow? The day

after? The rest of my life?

Roar! Tiger, teeth all around, chomp!

"What tiger?" "What teeth?" "This is north!"

"Hah!" "Those are just scratches."

"Apple blossoms, white, at cousin Eddy's."

Dad's hat in hand, head shiny,

Mom's scarf unruffled.

Wash out that mouth

and watch your tongue.

Stand up straight.

Synchronize that dance.

"Your task is to state one thing

we can stand." Anything else

put a lid on and bury in mind.

Under mountains of hair

clippings, old shirts, dirty

hand soap and toothpaste?

For forty years? And forty more?

I'm going to 'rupt this picture!

Scratchy Roar, teeth all around?

Squeaky "What tiger?" "What blood?"

"This is north!" "Apple blossoms."

Dad's moustache arrow, Mom's

hanging scarf, all crepe paper

and floppy green? No big

big noise? No fangy mouth?

Reach through moss, vines, green

tinsel and rubber tarantulas.

Pull that tiger's tail,

fangs, stripes, growl, and all.

Pull that tiger out.

Claws rip across bark,

turning up thin curlicues

and there's more than one!

A row of tigers, each with Mom's

or Dad's face, one inch tall.

Each biting the other's tail.

Pink dabs on their teeth.

                                                  [Clive Matson]