Cookie Jar

Delicate, unfed fingers reach weakly
toward the bedroom door.

Maybe mommy left a snack.
Maybe not.

Her mom is "out taking care of things"
again,
and her dad is a thousand miles away
with the woman and kids he actually cares about.
She's alone,
again.

Her door creaks open to reveal the hallway mirror,
the cruel reminder of who she's become on the outside.

Maybe it would show someone different this time.
Maybe not.

She's only eight and
already her ribs can be counted
one by one.
Her shoulder bones jut out,
only because her skin
hugs her so tightly.
It's the only thing that does.

She moves on along down the narrow,
dirt-filled hallway
to the grimy kitchen waiting at the other end.
That twenty-foot stroll tired her out.

Maybe there would be something edible in the fridge.
Maybe not.

Her dull eyes show the briefest glimmer,
a cookie jar is spotted far back on the counter.
Her stomach growls in desperate desire,
but she can't reach it.

She grabs the broom from the
dusty corner of the kitchen
and slowly pushes the cookie jar with it
to the edge of the counter,
just a little too far.

Ceramic pieces clatter and shatter
and ricochet across the room.
One piece is lodged in her bony leg.

Maybe mommy will care.
Maybe not.

She lets out a shriek
of pain and disappointment.
The only items on the floor of the kitchen
are the broken pieces of the cookie jar,
not a single cookie left.
It was pushed
and pushed
right to the edge
until it came clattering down,
breaking every piece inside
and out.

And then she knew
she and that cookie jar
are too much alike.