Little brother, our mother
is fattening you up
like a suckling pig ready for the spit.
Here is a shiny plump apple
to lodge in your mouth.
She is stirring the coals
in her vulgar garage,
that glimmer and shimmer like garnets in wine;
she is basting your cracklings
with honey drawn from her hive.
She allows you to crawl
but never to fly;
she has plucked out your wings
and made you a drone
to her queen.
She has rolled you in flour
and made gravy of your blood.
She allows you to look
but never be seen.
Caroline Misner
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/little-brother-5/
