Literature
Our Table
Our Table
The kitchen window casts
framed light across our table,
its lacquer shinning golden
beneath April air. My eyes
see every blemish.
The table, pock-marked—
once smooth, now undone
with age, mirrors my face.
It too is golden in the sun
and taken for granted
as being sturdy, perpetual.
It has known hands
which trace its lines and leave
stains behind. "It's not so bad,"
you say, "Just used."
We drape cloth over it
when the guests arrive.
- Tara Smith
