Monday, May 11, 2009

the bread was still warm on their plates

the bread was still warm on their plates.

cups full of tea
steeped in history
still steaming
from kettle to cup.

lips still moist from first sips
and last words.

The bread was still warm on their plates.

Dust swept off rugs
laid for late arrivals.
meals waiting in heated pots
lids heavy, careful not to let steam escape.

The bread was still warm on their plates.

Infants nurse and children learn
from womb to walking
that history repeats itself.

The bread was still warm on their plates.

Sandals slung over bare shoulders
infants cling to gorged breasts
no time for feeding,
footprints in the swept earth
dust pointing to repeated destiny.

The bread was still warm on their plates.

Tea steeps strong
grows cold,
steam escapes through cracks and quiet.

The bread was still warm on their plates.

Lips grow dry,
cracked
from final kisses
and last
goodbyes.

The bread was still warm on their plates.

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