The Kitchen Table

You put the brown bags down

But your shoulders are still tense from

Holding all those oranges and cans.

You shake your hands and call for me.

I’m in my pyjamas still,

Barefoot and haunting your living room,

When I hear the noise of rustling paper

And the tumbling of potatoes onto

The wooden counter. When

I emerge you weave past me on my way to the fridge, as

You look for the scissors.

I know where they are, but I

Say nothing.

You hate it when I tell you about

Your own house.

My eyes squint into

The bright yellow light

That’s pushing past the door.

You forgot to close it, and

Before you can stop him

Your dog is in the street,

Barking down the neighbourhood.

I pour you orange juice and pull the

Small of your back close to me.

Your hair is knotted and I

Have to stop myself from running

My fingers into the tangles.

I crave unravelling the disorder of you.

You skim your thumb over the skins of the tomatoes

As you put them in the fridge drawer.

The coffee pot has been

Sitting out for an hour, but you still pour

Yourself a mug. I ask if

We should get the dog.

You swallow and shake your head.

“He’ll come home when he’s hungry”.