dinner table
it has been a few years since
i have had tears, and a poem for diner
tonight i find i am ten years old, again
standing meekly at a fridge door left wide open
to the hot steam of salty water
racing down my cheeks,
melting the light frost away
i am ten years old, again
with a world too big, words too heavy
to continue carrying around
at the dinner table, i pull my knees deep into my chest
growing smaller- and smaller
i push away my dinner plate to make room
for a notebook, exchange fork for pen
suddenly too full for one more stanza,
yet craving something more sustaining
tonight, that funny taste resurfaces
clinging to the back of my tongue
i cannot swallow the lump, long built up
at the base of my throat
tonight, my words all taste wrong
the soup smells off
my spoon morphs back to pen, plate to paper
i grow smaller again, filling quickly
on limerick and line.
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Vivid. I was right there with the speaker of the poem, feeling small and lost–love the ending:
“filling quickly/on limerick and line.”