Winter Supper

by Andrejika Hough

The last one to come
along, I remain
outside and listen.

Forks fall to china
dinner plates and my
five older brothers’
voices rise up strong,
no breaths taken in
between the words and
lifted forks; their talk,
their mouthfuls are like
layered curtains, the
ones my mother draws now
against the cold.

She hesitates, there
near the window where
I look in. But still
she pulls the cloth, then
goes back, I guess, to
food and sons who, loud,
cannot know I’m here.