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Why Do We Set The Table?

NaBeela Washington | Poetry

At what temperature does blood
begin to boil? Thicken into a
roux, slip between bits of
basil, minced garlic,
orecchiette;

Permeate chunks of spicy kielbasa,
bind a dash of salt, pepper, bubbles
roiling forth, then dissipating,
heat lowered to a hush;

Congeal from the shock of cool
clay dishes as a small mound
is delicately plated with a
large plastic spoon;

Spurt steam, burning both
nostrils, as we lean in to say
grace, my father’s seat empty,
placemat bare.