Hunger

No more joyous eating, meat knifed from bone or torn

with the teeth.  My brother’s mouth has closed

for the last time.  No grease embarrasses his necktie, 

no butter gleams on his lips or shines

on the tips of his fingers.  There are no crumbs 

to brush from his cheek as I bend for a kiss,  no sauce

to dab from his beard.  Later, the family will laugh

to see how almost every photograph of him

includes a table crowded with steaming bowls,

baskets of bread.  His hands are delicate as he passes

a plate, raises a glass.  Flickering candles reflect

in his eyes. He left life unfinished as he never left

a meal, but he looks satisfied, lost in an after-dinner nap. 

We are the ones who seem to be starving, milling before him,

waiting to be called in one last time for supper,

as if grace is all that stands between us and a feast.

Pat Daneman has published poetry in the Spoon River Poetry Review, Poem, Midwest Quarterly, Comstock Review, Pedestal Magazine, and other small magazines as well as fiction in The Indiana Review and MSS.  She has a masters degree in English and creative writing from Binghamton University and works as a creative director in Kansas City.