“Hunger” by Karin Gordon

In my childhood kitchen
a mousetrap with eight holes
stood empty in the evening
full in the morning

to trap a mouse
cost a grain of wheat
eight grains a day
diminished our rations

we counted our ribs
they counted their dead

snow drifted through the walls
like feathers from a pillow-fight
our blankets were spittle and dust
we stopped counting ribs
and counted our dead.