The Poultry

The aunt asks how work is, and I take a bite

of a dry piece of breast meat under the light.

Six people start chewing at the exact same pace,

studying the flowers on the cheap cotton lace.

Nobody mentions the brother who didn't show up,

or why my mother keeps filling her cup.

We talk about the weather and the price of the gas,

while the heavy white platters continue to pass.

Now I’m in the kitchen with the carcass and the grease,

looking for a moment of actual peace.

The bird is just gristle and a hollowed-out chest,

a picked-over skeleton put to its rest.