On a cold, gray 
Michigan winter evening,
we sit to dinner.

Codfish, mashed potatoes, canned corn; 
all cold.
The fish is old;
fried to leather, 
it smells like rancid ocean.

No one speaks.
I push fish flakes 
among corn nibblets,
unable to clean my plate.

My grandmother giggles.
My mother titters.
I look to my right.

With brown eyes dancing
above his solemn face,
my little brother wears
a mashed potato beard