Your sister
Carves the roast and
Serves it to your parents.
She smiles broadly.
Your parents smile in return
And the compliments fly.
She then carves a piece for you.
Your head droops
Your eyes intensely follow the knife
As it slices through the tender meat.
Then your eyes dropp to the juices
Flowing from the cut.
You smile
But I hear your heart sink
And I hear you think
That there must be
A reserved spot in hell,
An especially hot spot,
For parents who play favorites
And rank their children.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem