Dinner

We pass platters -
parslied potatoes
and turnips, bruised
and rescued from the cellar.
Uncle Robin spears the meat,
boiled and sweating on his plate,
and proclaims it good -
the best Aunt Jill has ever made
as I count the peas in the bowl
in front of me,
pretending they are soldiers
I can shoot.

Don't you like your dinner
mama asks me
as she shakes out her napkin
and plants it back
in her lap
where it will surely grow
sorrowful again.
Father just stares at her
wondering how she got there
and who she is,
biscuit sopping in his soup.

Under the table,
I poke my cousin Gretchen
in the shin
with a fork
because I like her
and I want to watch her
take off her dress
for me again.
Dessert is jello,
the kind with fruit
growing inside of it,
the sad red quivering
in the dish
like a dog's heart

And we hover
at the table -
a feast of thieves,
a family
who sip cool tea
from long glasses
and wear clothes
they do not know
and pretend
our hungry words
will linger with the crumbs.