THE CASE AGAINST THE MOTHER

The night before court she called the plaintiff

a chauvinist pig. Her son was puzzled, though

he’d heard her use the phrase on men before.

Five months earlier at the Bagel Den

she’d said it between bites — the man was a pig,

his showroom a sham, the furniture cheap

knockoffs — and a booth away a friend of his

sipped coffee and caught each word like a dime,

then carried it where dimes get counted.

A legal letter came. She tore it in two.

Her husband, who knew courts, told her she needed

a lawyer — not the neighbor, but a bulldog —

someone to try the difference between

kibitzing and defamation, to paint a picture

of the Sunday clatter: plates ringing, babies

crying, grandparents shouting for decaf,

kids drumming spoons on little metal creamers —

Who could hear anything over that ruckus?

But everyone knew her voice traveled

like a train whistle from checkout to last booth.

She hired Peter, the neighbor, the shepherd.

She was bad at taking advice. She paid.

Later she told her son it wasn’t even slander

if you said it to a face. He tried this on a stuffed animal;

it wouldn’t talk to him for weeks.

He learned to speak softly in loud rooms,

to tell truths sideways, to keep a bulldog at heel.