he says, seated on his knees
in the high red stool, belly pressed
to the edge of the gray counter. My son
who has graduated from single words to
third person omniscient: Theo climb chair,
Theo peel orange, Theo look out window,
points to this strange, broken piece of toast
I am wincing from the toaster to his plate.
We contemplate the hole and agree
on the solution of blueberry jam.
As I stab the knife into the fancy jar
and swish sweetness over the flaw,
he chants Theo eat it, Theo eat it,
Theo eat it. And I think how alike
we are, anchoring action in narrative
as if this might make the moment
hold on a bit longer, as if in naming
something right, we release it
like steam from a pot
whose meal is complete.