Dinner Table

Spaghetti sauce simmers

as it’s heat warms the vintage living room

of cherry wood from the cherry fruit tree

melting all thoughts

of the cold and snow outside where

night is so black, it looks dark blue.

A dark blue quiet.

He comes home dressed in his uniform,

takes his hat off at the door

because that’s the rules.

One day, a little girl will come

rushing towards him, her chubby arms

reaching out to finally see him

after his early descent this morning

while she was still

asleep in her crib next to our bed.

But for now, I am his only girl.

Kissing next to the fire,

bodies so close,

we don’t even need it—

and it doesn’t even feel like it’s there.

His hands on my cheeks, his arms holding

me in his space where

I feel safest in this world.

Dinner tables are hard to come by

because none of them are as comforting

as the one that only you and I eat at.

Fluffed, french bread

with melting butter

and I can see you through the steam.

The white heat.

Promise me you’ll never not come back,

and leave me to starve here alone.

Be as warm as the food feels when

it touches the roof of my mouth,

and spreads to my body, nourishing

and fulfilling, killing the hunger

I crave. Every night, sit with me

at this table, so that we can

write our story, one that

never has an ending.