We stand over the stove. 
We pick through remains
of a chicken carcass,
recently roasted. We fill
Tupperware bowls
with handfuls of meat. 
The light above 
casts a yellow blanket 
over the remains. 
Lemon juice and roasted
garlic cloves swim and swirl
in the black pan. 
You hook your finger
around the wishbone. 
When the breast and rib 
meat has gone, the legs
safe in separate containers,
the bird flipped for oysters,
and wings inspected,
eaten in the haste of clean-up,
then you find the prize. 
We place our greasy thumbs
on either side and a wish
escapes the cracking bone. 
Your side, not mine, is larger.