silver plates were the bridle
of Sunday, out of the kitchen came
steaming entrées, out of love
napkins, nothing was as near to us
as the table, which guaranteed
continuance. locked hands prayed
Our Hunger meagerly under it,
real stable meat, pure breast,
at the end it always came down to
preserves, the private plums
after primarily the People's Own potatoes:
no sentence was peeled so
clean, even if the conversations
shimmered like the photograph-
father in his best years,
who would never in the end prevent
the bitters of an exhaustion
that seemed rented from owls.

Translated by JD Schneider