by Alan Berecka

In an empty kitchen,
Thanksgiving dinner
over, the widower picks
meat from a spent carcass.

His daughters, mothers
themselves, meet behind
a locked bedroom door.

Their mother’s jewelry
box lies open between
them as they sit
on their parents’ bed.

They divide its contents,
heirlooms for their own
daughters, as they walk
the fine line between
blood and desire.

When they finish
the family will
regather to eat
cold sandwiches
and dessert.

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