THE WISHBONE

It was not a family feast, just the two of us

Picking at the carcass of a fowl, a hen

or rooster, baked and cold from the fridge.

It was not an anniversary, no time of good

Hope for years to come, no summing up, no

Resolutions--an ordinary day, work done,

The children overnight at grandma's. You

Looked tired still, six months from my last

Breakdown. I carved the chicken, served you

The front end of the breast, that small part

With the wishbone. After dinner, tears

Stood in our eyes, as in a ballet we pulled,

Wish made, at the wishbone. I wished

To be done with the re-enactments of

Childhood. I think you wished for my return.

Snap, and I still do not know which end

Wins, the shortshank spindle or the club.