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