The cutlery that lives under the bed
in the scarred wooden box with one broken hinge. Worn red velvet inside of its case,
is on this table.
Set alongside crystal and wooden vessels
that are for drinking from. Except for today. Today we are using them to hold our secrets. At this table.
In this hour.
Light is coming through the glass panes of the kitchen windows, unabsolved.
We blink at its obtrusion as it drapes the tea stained cloth that lines this table.
There are prayers in these memories
in the light and in the things and
the places that are not polished.
In the quiet spaces as the day is turning golden and dreamy.
Secrets, held in moments, still spinning through time.
Our ancestors, blood and light
sit around this table and wait for us to return for our birthright.
© Elizabeth McLaughlin
