Poetry is nearer to vital truth than history.  ~Plato

Dinner’s Almost Ready

Stella Robertson

 

Mom tells me to set the table, and for the hundredth time 

reminds me that the napkins go on the left.

I twist the knob on the wall

and the chandelier blazes.

By the wood stove, Dad sits in the chair he made himself. 

The chair is small,

and he looks like a child who’s outgrown his old clothes. 

Not looking away from The New Yorker, he reaches up 

and dims the light.

The candles glow,

alone now,

in their misshapen homemade pots.

 

I pour in bowtie pasta too fast,

and boiling water splashes my fingers.

Mom holds a cold sliced cucumber to the burn. 

When she turns to cut the carrots,

I place the slice in my mouth

and my favorite album on the record player. 

Dramatic chords echo through the kitchen

as Mom makes pesto pasta with basil

from the garden. Angelic indie rock is the soundtrack 

to fresh leaves, garlic, and pine nuts

in the blender, and she mixes anchovies

in a metal bowl for caesar salad.

 

The dining room is dark now, but this is how I know it. 

I stand on the metal grate for as long as I can,

burying my toes in the cat’s black fur

when it starts to burn.

 

Cat Power sings

so loud,

I can hear it from the front yard.

as I roll the recycling bin over our thin strip of grass 

and it catches on the stones

we lined the sidewalk with two summers ago.

The street is unlit, and I listen hard

for music coming from other families’ houses.

But all I hear is the deep bass that rattles my front door.