Father

She would hold out to us dishes laden
with expertly carved meats dressed up in last rite garnish.
Even after she had filled us, she had more to give,
sweet things I loved, powdered gently,

and I had to accept well past the point of comfort.
How could I tell her it was too delicious, not enough,
that I needed to go out for a long walk and sing on the street corners,
that I’d rather beg strangers for scraps than remain
in the bright envelope of the kitchen never going hungry?

And how many months did you treat her just like this
excusing yourself from the table, to got to bed and wait for things
less delicately made and given, things you knew left her empty?
I cannot excuse myself, but when I leave, I will leave
the door wide open to the street, and if I ever come back starved,
I will hope the house is empty, the old knives gathering dust in their drawers.