Table of Longing

March 17, 2008

The table of longing was like two lovers –
separate but vital – to each others
continuing survival. It’s two sets of wooden legs
even ended in a set of four,
perfectly sculpted oaken claws.

The table of longing smelt of all the years
they’d ever eaten: butterscotch pudding, hot fruit
with vanilla ice cream. It tasted of the wine
occasionally spilt, the skin of the hands
banged together.

The table of longing was the sound of
all furniture ever moved. A distant sea
in the ear of a grand piano. It was a tree uprooted
and black soil stirred. A car moaning
at the foot of a hill.

The table of longing was lined paper
written with verse, varnished petals
of bronze wood. It was three panels
of a painted screen, sheets to hide it’s naked dreams:
a desire to be folded – to rest limbs.

The table of longing was a pair of wings.
Gold hinges, glowed in the dark.

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