one, two, three, four, five, & six.
the first ; for a father,
who's never home on time.
instead he eats alone when he finally
makes it home.
the second ; for a mother,
running on borrowed time.
she paints her children's portraits
out of tears she cried when father doesn't
make it home 'til midnight.
the third ; reserved for the eldest son,
aliferous in the clouds,
the most beatific of his siblings yet
mother doesn't remember his name.
father don't cry for him at night.
the fourth ; empty,
waiting for the middle son,
but he takes after his father —
expect he skips dinner for more
nicotine.
the fifth ; is where the youngest son
should've been seated, instead he's
taped down to his mother's dresser
with a silver jar. he hears her mourning
every twilight.
& the sixth seat ;
sits the daughter, dressed in pink
holding her doll-y tightly.
eating the crow's raw wing.
"he hurt me, mommy."
she whispers — fourteen yet stuck
at the age of three.
"do you know where you're brothers are, sweetie?"
mother ask — ignoring the sentence
said over the row of empty seats.
"he hurt me, mommy."
