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

had a dream. You were in front of a window.

It was a very large window. Outside the

window was nothing but blackness and

branches, and the blackness was hitting the

branches, and the branches were hitting the

window. A fire burned in the kitchen, a gas

fire. The car was in the garage. Or was it?

You were watching something. I was

watching you. There was a noise at the

door, a scratching. Neither of us moved.

Inspired by the works of Richard Siken