At the battered table, streaked with paint
like time-lapse stars, caught in their courses,
we lean in. A spindle creaks.
Oxidized fan blades
spin above the sad white plate
and stir the perfume of apples, sliced open.
One human eclipse, it seems,
calls forth another: Pain spills.
We drink too much tea,
and rungs underfoot, loose in their joints,
do not steady the feet. Chills corner
wool sweaters, roughen the snags
like a tale abandoned, mid-sleeve.
If we were to paint inertia, we’d need
a canvas, cratered, like that lesser moon
in Jupiter’s shadow. Please,
speak softly about our parents,
even pray aloud, but know that inwardly,
we orbit a black hole, try to somehow
manage what cannot be borne.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 1.
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