hard footsteps coming
judgmental in front of stovetop.
Boy, younger, stands readily
holding a left-handed ladle
drowning in juices you did not
drag from behind in heated struggle.
No, your shied brother stiffened upper lip,
strayed not a question for right.
Firstborn. May I be? Spoken
hushed due to temperament.
Oh, the agony gnawing viciously
unseen, maybe unheard to the quiet tongued
child unimagined in my mind’s eye, as is your tummy.
Until you break-erupt: What time do I have for this?
Give me what I so crave! Downed lowered chin
comes salted broth, a flavoring dear brother
watches break animal resistance.