Polishing Silver

[billy]

hi geoff, can't believe i didn't leave any feedback . i'm just going to leave feedback on the last edit.

V. 3

Until father noticed the scratch
while hosing down the car, our rags
pulled and took water from bowls
mother filled with special soap.

the anticipation of the dads anger is felt but i think it needs a bit of work. my suggestion would be along the lines of;
waiting for father to notice the scratch
as he hosed down the car, our rags
pulled and took water from bowls
mother filled with special soap.
at present it reads as though dad is using "our rags"

She must have seen us from the window
while she baked her sweet potatoes
and we threw gravel in the yard. would 'as' be better than and
What else could explain the cloth (cloths)

and piles of silverware, all splayed
across the uncovered table
for us to come inside and find
as instincts looked for spots to hide?

Everything was tarnished; forks
and knives, the spoons we use to serve,
our faces when given the chore,
the pause before a father's words. good ending.

mainly i just had a small problem with the 1st stanza, in that it had me re reading to see why i was stumbling. other than that i enjoyed it a lot with nothing of note that needs work. the fear in the kids was apparent and they knew what was coming. i liked the narrative







V. 2 adjusted first and last stanzas most heavily

Polishing Silver



Under mother's watch, we grasp
two bowls of water, two stained rags,
while father goes to wash the car
and find the scratch on the rear door.

He hasn't learned we threw the rock,
ran inside and begged to help
mother bake her sweet potatoes.
She must have seen us out the window

as we threw gravel in the yard.
What else could explain the cloth
and piles of silverware, all splayed
across the uncovered table?

Everything is tarnished; knives
and forks, the spoons we use to serve,
our faces when given the chore,
our hands. Everything is tarnished.






V. 1

Under mother's order, we grasp
rags tighter than father pressed
his lips when he found a stone
had sunk into his Chevelle's door.

He hasn't learned we threw the rock,
ran inside and begged to help
mother bake her sweet potatoes.
She must have seen us out the window

throwing gravel by the garage.
What else could explain the cloth
and piles of silverware, all splayed
across the uncovered table?

Everything is tarnished; knives
and forks, the spoons we use to serve,
our faces when given the job,
our hands blackened by metal blood.