November—a creaky oak table.
Doors open and close with
the arrival of hands.
They carry salt, and patched
plates, and boundless bowls.
Lemons and limes inside
lustrous white bowls.
Nobody warned me how grief
multiplies. Cups filled with vinegar,
and more vinegar.
More cups.
And more cups.
If I could, I would scoop
strange griefs from sore hands,
like siphoning seeds from
citrusy pulp.
My hands are small.
My hands are small.
My hands are small.
The oak is large. We shove chairs
shoulder to shoulder. We
makeshift a bench.
We make room.
We make room.
We make room.
We press palms tight,
weave fingers into soft loops.
The only way out:
together and through.
