Misplaced appetite

I
used to
eye with my teeth
biting down on the wood
by habit, balancing on my toes,
the neglected uneaten crumbs reclining
on the plate with countless pockets for more
food which my mother keeps refilling with less love
and more duty, vestiges of my father's luxurious
meal, sizing them up, itching to touch
and hurriedly swallow when he isn't
looking.At least that's what dutiful
wives do on technicolour Malayalam
movies - our Sunday evening
family ritual. But it's cold
and dead and tastes
like his saliva that
sometimes falls
on my lips
when he
berates.

Now I spoon out my love in lukewarm porridge into my father's petulant lips, crumbs and all.