When the Stoned Wheat Thins box top
insists upon flapping open like a flyaway curl
I almost know how it feels to shake a child.
Crackers bounce off cabinet doors and the stove
crushed by stomping toes I’m sure aren’t mine
their soft staleness a reflection on my parenting.
The crumbs exact burred revenge
clinging between my bleach crisp sheets
biting the ankles they find there.