The Kitchen Table
Here we slurped oysters,
cracked clams, birthed
baby birds in a slur
of fat and microgreens coaxed
from mossy beds. Our table
more unearthed
than built by an ox
of an earthy man
that speaks in a dialect
only oxen can understand.
Here we dabbled and daubed
buttons and lifetimes and foil. With our fingers
we spread out a continent
of dried pinto beans and with clouds
over our eyes felt for debris and pebbles.
Here we pulled dimes and charms
and prayers from the bellies of fish
then backflipped
into their ocean
where we were drowned and devoured
in oils. And then let ourselves be caught
with seven kinds of hooks and lures.
Here we bemoaned artichokes, disarmed
and pickled our tongues
over and over in every condiment,
preserved and polished off our clocks
and other accouterments.
We plucked tail feathers
from our tail-feathers
while we gorged and supped in reverence
on revenge, we peppered and tendered
sage to keep the coyotes and that hawk
that winked at us at bay. For the ghosts of our dogs:
a savory mash. For the ghost of a great poet:
fennel to gnaw on and sun-buttered yarrow
to light the way. At this table we made a manger
where we twisted and turned in our own
manure in the threat of annihilation
in our reburning and rebirthing
we cured a savior to relish and wolf.
***
Author photo courtesy of Catherine Bowman
