Wishbone

Thanksgiving day, and the

turkey was cooked and carved,

white meat cleaved from bone,

father’s job, his only other job

but to stay out of the way,

out of the kitchen, his

place assigned elsewhere, hands

folded over belly, full, napping,

football unwatched on the TV,

victory drowned out in snoring;

and the carcass, cool now, stripped

nude but for bits of meat hanging uneaten,

carcass waiting, bare and waiting,

for me, my job but to find the wishbone,

dried and hard and brittle,

a wish made, two halves pulled

and bone broken, splintered,

chips flying from snapped ends;

but wishes made, like wishbones broken, break,

for a brother’s still there when

you wished him away and

on Monday after the long break,

the long break’s wish, you’re

pushed and pulled, picked on yet again,

no matter how much you believed

in the long side of the wishbone,

no matter how much you believed,

it always seemed to be the wrong side,

the wish untrue, the wishbone broken;

and the war raged on

and he never came home;

perhaps on Thanksgiving, in a bunker,

my brother made the same wish I did

and pulled the shorter side of

a wishbone, bone snapping, chips flying, and

his wish, like mine, did not come true

as he lay there dying, alone,

on Thanksgiving day, an American holiday

they wouldn’t stop the war for

and no matter how many wishbones

I pulled and broke, snapped, the

long side in my hand, glorious victory drowned,

his shorter broken wish took priority over mine.