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 juicier — 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 could travel 
from checkout to the back booth. She hired Peter, 
the neighbor. 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 his stuffed animals — 
 
they 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.