your mother’s brisket was a wonder;
haunting subsequent generations
resigned to wistful never again.
the torch was passed on a grease-spattered note card
to your sister Amy, her brisket likewise enshrined
until age-weary, she cut corners.
brisket is unforgiving.
you know this, yet have taken up the pass,
working the legacy
with both mother and sister over your shoulder.
at the holiday table we second their approval
falling apart on our tongues,
the salty richness of sacrifice
layering love notes of enduring sweetness.