Presence

I am the blood-red stain
on the bone-white cloth
that’s been in the family for years.
You can hide me
with a well-placed serving dish
or a garish Texas centerpiece,
but you cannot blot me
from your memory.

You’ve tried repeated washings,
but my burgundy shadow
continues to disturb.
Strait-laced, God-fearing,
you recite grace around me
and pray I might be cleansed.

As plates are cleared
and conversation spills
to a level furtive as an affair,
I sit quietly, a stigma
that won’t stop bleeding.
I can pretend with the best of them,
but the only way to be rid of me
is to throw the tablecloth out.