It's Still Life

THE TABLE (in three parts)

… that meal of polenta filled tamales, that New Years dinner in Colombia when I had flu, fever, and a gnashing headache. that meal I couldn’t face, couldn’t eat it. I was so embarrassed. apologetic. for three days, she prepared that meal. she looked so sad when I left the table to lie down. I’ve carried her expression with me through the quick tick of years. odd how a shallow scratch tears your skin open. I’ve carried it with me like a song. Like my own Auld Lang Syne.

the table is set red and green and sprigs of holly
from the garden – a spider walks across the table.

I’m not in the mood for pummelling nature and so
the spider swings itself off the table to the floor.

how many candles for the table. we agree –
three seems biblical. we can’t find the matches.

somewhere,
the smell
of sulphur
and smoke

as if the house is hiding fire.

the table is
set.
chairs pushed
in.

maybe the universe is burning.

knives and forks
and spoons
aligned

as if battle plans were laid.

Christmas carols
on the radio,
and he says,

I found the matches.

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Image Twelfth Night by Jan Steen, Date: 1662, public domain ©Misky 2021 Shared with #apoemaday on Twitter. Poem inspired by a Miz Quickly prompt.