Fullness and Hunger

My father orders the crab croquet
and I am quick to correct
croquette for the white waiter
pouring water coquettishly.
Last summer in England I watched
my brother grip a mallet on the
manicured lawn of his new life
while my parents learned the rules
to this ballet, beaming, and I sipped
gin. My father’s face when he
hit the ball through the wicket.
My father’s face now. The slipped
grin. My father’s face in my face.
I can be wicked, I begin to say, but
it sounds like crickets, it sounds
like nothing at all, though both
our mouths are moving.