Poetry | Taking Our Places

There is a place set for me,

I have been arriving at it,

Slipping off my coat,

Pulling out the chair.

Manoeuvring my hips

Placing myself down, only

To say, this isn't what I want,

Looking elsewhere, scanning

The room for signs of happiness.

There's terror in that search,

Terror in the sight of a stranger

Feasting nearby, when all I need

Is for what is theirs to be mine.

There was so much pain, I changed,

It happens too, they say, when you die,

That's when we see our same places

Blazing in light, bursting with things,

Roasted chestnuts on our plates

Soaring condors high above,

We see our ancestors narrow glance

Curled inside new blue eyes,

We are given words for our dead

Sitting across the table and they listen;

Our histories are rewritten.

We touch our knives, grateful

For their edges, for the light

On our water, for the crumbs we press

Against the cloth, we take our places,

With kisses, in peace, hands on our hands,

Laughter, in the abundance of our feast.