Lamb By Lori Jean Finnila My dad’s look was stern, It was lamb at the dinner table again. Mom would be sweet, I’d lick the plate, And even have my sister And brother’s on there way to me. The softness of the pink flesh, The broiled skin in eloquence Touched my lips once again. But brashly put, That wouldn’t stop the experience Of lamb in our house. For my brother would puke, Sister would cry, Mother would flush… And then back to dad’s stern look. Was it the poor sad sheep we feared for, Or perhaps because it was on our baby crib At one time. Was it the coloring books Or reading books, Or perhaps grandma’s hooks Filled so with it as she knits. Was it, the scratch of wool That it reminded of, That made us itch Up on our skin so bad. Perhaps the night time tale That was supposed to bring us so much comfort Would never come again. Alas, poor lamb. Count 1, Two, And three. You will always be rest assured ...