croissant 

inside the butter curl we talked
with lamp light voices. i learned food is a place
to go forgetting. no more front door.
no more father. my alarm clock
without any legs, running in
a lightning storm. all our knees played
like dinner bells. i thought i wanted to be 
an only child. instead, we had to share
the kitchen counter when it was full
of birds. you & me on a summer afternoon.
the croissants from the grocery store.
one & then the next. chewing wildly on 
that holy day after mom went shopping 
& there were handfuls to be had. to be a sibling is
to sit on either side of a tunnel passing
a ball back & forth. i remember once 
both of us held the croissants up
to the big kitchen light. they were 
stained glass flesh. orange-brown glow.
the layers of pastry were stale-ish & flaky.
as we tore them apart the crumbs looked like
fish food on the counter. on our lips. our thighs.
we usually split the last one. wish-boned.
you with the bigger end. a dog house
in the water place. windows smudged with
fingerprints. we were never full.