First Supper Back


Last rays of the day dye our dining room
in a purple magnolia polish.
Utensils await, our hands rest,
eyes fixed on the plates. My mother’s face,
painted in blush, eyes flushed
puffy and scarlet. A drop wavers
past her ginger freckles.
She raises a napkin, but hesitates,
gulps, curves her eyebrows
into an arch and allows the bead
to fall. Our veins vibrate in sync:
da dum da dum da dum
a hum that sums our human noise
into one.
Not one limb moves,
not even when the auburn glow retreats
and the dark eats.

A seat waits empty.

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