Dinner
Take a seat at the kitchen table. Pull your chair in. Cross your legs, pick up the fork and knife. Or knife and fork, it’s open to interpretation. You cut with the left and spear with the right. I had a dream. There was a hurricane. We had a cat that died because you forgot to let it inside. For a week we ate dinner in the dark. Crush the napkin in your hand. Listen to the fizz of the cider. Take a sip, go on, it’s not poisoned. Here I am watching you watch the ants in the shed out back. Here I am hand- feeding you pesto pasta and chicken breast. The dark comes down outside and the lights come on across the road. Row upon row of leprechaun gold, and no rainbow to lead us there. Say no when I ask a question. That’s okay. Say yes. That’s okay too. You are something I have learned to live with. Uncross your legs, stand up, turn on the radio. Something from Safeway about seasonal fruits. You stare at the cider. It has turned flat. Apple or pear? you ask, and I say Why can’t it be both? I...
