...the ark of the covenant overlaid round about with gold, wherein was the golden pot that had
manna, and Aaron’s rod that budded, and the tablets of the covenant. –Hebrews 9:4
Lined up in front of the television,
my brother, sister, and I leaned over
our dinner. Sitting
cross-legged, backs rounded,
heads bowed, we stared
at our plates on the floor
before us: boiled beef neck-bone,
sauerkraut, lima beans. Our father
behind us, recliner in its upright
position. He’d swing the belt
at our backs
when he caught us looking up
at whatever movie he had recorded
the week before. He had stacks
of them— titles scrawled, then marked
out, new titles in the leftover
spaces: Star Wars,
Star Trek, Indiana Jones.
Raiders of the Lost Ark was the only
movie I saw in the theater
with my parents. I was five, stone-struck
at the Nazi’s face melting when he stared
into the opened ark. Don’t look, don’t look
my father whispered.
After dinner,
he stood us in the kitchen, a glass
of milk in our hands, and forced us
to drink. It will make you stronger
he said. It hardly mattered in the end—
those bones, our skin battered from one episode
or another. Once, I scooped fried potatoes
onto my plate, a serving too large. The rest of us
have to eat too he said, pulling the oil-covered
spoon from the frying pan, before he slapped my face
with the hot slotted-metal. Later,
when he said he was sorry, I wanted it
to be a promise. How many times
can a father start over.
How many times can we reset the scene.