Dream Poem In Which We Never Eat at the Table
by Kiyanna Hill
We cook a meal: barefoot, linoleum cold
on our heels. Blunt knives working against
scarred cutting boards. Outside, a heavy snow.
I hold my body against the oven, its light still
brilliant years after she placed me on my knees
in front of the dense glass to watch butter melt.
It was then I learned how butter foams,
then smells of sage, then sears. She sings,
wrapped in a robe with fraying seams.
She opens and closes her fists, muscles
tense before slack. In this dream, we cut
vegetables with mirrored ease.
We dance around each other, a quiet glide
that never asks for skin to grace skin.
I always remember to curl my fingers.
The snow sticks to the ground.
The crumbs we leave behind promise
I’ll never be satisfied,
my mother’s anchor still rusting in my sleep.