My father allows my mother
half of a doughnut,
he begrudges her eating
an entire waffle,
he’s pissed off because
I won’t share,
he monitors her glasses
of wine
as he narrows the space
between two fingers,
my father decides
the campfire
is too much for Mother
too many ashes
too many bugs,
it is up to my father 
how far they will walk;
when they will stop
for a rest,
whether to snack
before a meal.

On the water
my mother aches
to see the loons,
the family
holding fast to a cove
along McKay Island,
she pulls in the mother
and chick
with her binoculars,
my father snatches
the lenses from her,
where are they?
where are they?
he snaps
as the birds vanish
in afternoon light.

Bio: Glenn G. Coats