After Supper

We ate supper without Mother
asking us to say
grace.                           We swallowed

                               the sour-
sweet paksiw, and the steaming (but fast-cooling)
rice in silence, till nothing but the mute
fish bones, and our cold, greased spoons
remained on our blue
sartin plates.                  We waited

                                for Mother
to speak. But she remained frozen
on her seat, staring at her empty
plate—her mouth aching to properly form
the most proper shape
of the words for us.        We have to talk,

                                she said earlier,
and there we were now, waiting
for her head to raise, mouth to open
and start why
he can’t be with
us anymore, from now on,
eat with us,
                                Father.