Around the Table
Where the house stood,
trees have come back
one by one, maples, elms.
Sweet is the shade of memory.
Shades walk there now,
in shapes of spirits that come
when evening returns.
Hear the pat pat of a rocking chair,
see my grandfather's brogans
tapping the floor,
his hand cupped over the finial
at the top of his chair.
Far in the back Grandma rattles pans,
warming supper, heating the oven,
despite summer heat, the stifling kitchen.
The icebox door slams.
Over the sink a triangular mirror
just where it has always been,
blurred and chipped, cheap.
Cretonne on the sofa, the fireplace painted red,
a radio from a bedroom playing jazz. And Mother
adjusting her dress over slim hips;
pelisse and chenille cover the beds.
I am wearing a playsuit, sandals,
and a satin bow, reading the comics
from a paper that says "Roosevelt Dead."
Grandma calls, "Supper."
while night beats against the screens,
and evening breathes,
sliding with fog over the mountain.
Light is tallow yellow, the color
of the oil cloth on the table.
Wartime steak, pounded to a pulp,
is still tough to chew, though flavorful.
Gravy is rich as laughter, light as the biscuits
that seem to float in air. We are all there.
Daddy Reed slightly drunk,
Aunt Effie mad at someone,
Grandma's head bent in prayer--
now all are gone: those bright hours.
I pour sorghum syrup, play with my fork, draw
in my mind a circle of light against the dark.
Sue Scalf
http://www.members.aol.com/poetscalf
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