Easter Dinner

by Elizabeth Tibbetts

Now we are in the presence of nieces: sapling-
legged girls who wear emerging breasts high
on their chests.  Small pearls adorn their ears.
And the lavender fatigue of rapid growth shows
beneath their eyes.  They’re still young enough
to have a little to do with the rest of us.  Though
they could fly away on their lush black lashes,
they play chess with uncles, arm-wrestle fathers,
and allow their aunts and mothers to watch.  If
you’re there, as they believe, gold crosses flickering
like bees at their necks, watch over them
when they leave us behind.
And thanks
for this food: platters of roast spring lamb, sweet
potato, fragrant rolls.  Though none of us, trust me,
cooks as well as the dead aunt who now bakes pizza
for you.  So why try?  But we all do.  Who makes
the best ricotta pie?  Even I vied for that as I wove
thin strips of dough, crimped crust — though I’m
married into a foreign tribe.  As are all the women
at the table.  They don’t seem struck, forks halfway
to their mouths, wondering how they got here,
what will or twist of fate set this plate before them.