the birthday cake

i have some bones
to pick with you, she
says, sitting
at the kitchen table,
hands folded.
only the light
over the stove is
on, which seems ominous,
that soft low wattage
bulb, the kind you
see in the movies
when detectives
are questioning
the suspect. pick away,
you say, opening
the refrigerator
to drink from a
quart of milk.
use a glass, why don't
you she says
not even turning
her head to see.
okay, you say, and
place the carton
back in, taking out
the last piece
of birthday cake
hardened like a slice
of cheese on
a cold plate.
you sit down next to
her and nibble
on the cake. no fork?
she says, nah,
this cake is so hard
it might bend.
so what's wrong, you
ask her, shoveling
pieces in, crumbs,
icing, cascading
onto the table. oh,
i'm sorry, did you
want the last piece?
it's your cake.