momma’s knife was dull
as she chopped the vegetables
but against her cheek it damn near smiled

her boy has shot up over the years
in a cloud of steam
a flash of teeth and a fistful of hair

the knotted apron, the pleading pores
the furnace fires
as she offers him her throat…

when Father arrives dad’s still at work
and the absence of supper
christens the talk of baby sister