In the center
the table
of solid wood,
you’re leaning
I can almost see you:
the table is the
stone,
and all that passes
over
is the river:
succession of afternoons,
morning light,
food,
and boys
that barely cross the threshold
and become men.
But there’s a time,
each afternoon,
when that table is a raft,
its silent arrival
at the heart of fire,
as if you wrote
a poem amid war.
To account for that passage
your name
among other questions,
privilege of the gods.
Snapshot in the Kitchen for Minerva Margarita
and boys / that barely cross the threshold / and become men

Photo by Tara Winstead