It arrives out of necessity the way breakfast

usually does – Marc Anthony crashed on the table

 

while Stanley Tucci reaches for the eggs, room-

temperature on the bottom shelf. No one talks,

 

they just emote, in a way so unlike most men

– there is no more yelling, the sun has risen

 

and there is day-old bread. Stanley Tucci cracks

three eggs, lifting each to coax the inside out

 

into the bowl. We know that he’s fucked,

the same way he knows, and there is little to do

 

but eat breakfast in this kitchen so lovingly looked after

by Marc Anthony – the timpano carved up and packed away,

 

any sign of the last supper remains outside. Off-screen,

there is a shuffling sound as we watch, still thinking

 

about the skill an actor needs to make eggs on camera

and divide them into threes – I know I wouldn’t leave

 

any for my idiot brother, I think to myself, just split it

between Marc Anthony and myself – but there,

in his own third of the screen, is Tony Shalhoub,

 

cowed or tired or just a little bit hungry, and Stanley Tucci,

still chewing, stands to reach for another plate

and a fork like a spouse or a mother or a roommate

 

who made more than he’d need (he knew) and Marc Anthony

understands, with his even, measured walk out of the frame,

that these brothers will be okay they just need a moment

 

to eat their eggs and sit, facing the same direction

for the first time in almost the whole, entire film.