The New Table Poem by Irene Cunningham

That summer we watched couples kiss
on railway platforms, faces expanding
retreating. It was hot.
His ringed finger got between me
and the tartan velvet of the seats.

A carpet knight on vacation
my thighs lapped at his buttocks.
He dined well at my white-linened
Trestle – me, an after-dinner mint.
I’d run my tongue around the cave
of his mouth and sink into his dreams.

Five feasts have come and flown,
‘It’s time for seasoned wood’
he said. A virile table to swell my belly –
sturdy oak, stained red and rubbed
with shoulders dangling heavy breasts.

His fingers curled on the poppy seed cob.
I watched the new year sun jangle
through the long hairs of his arms
and was bathed in golden perfection.

*

Now, with his face in breakfast TV
he registers absent.
I trace the lattice of satin scars
on my mountainous abdomen
resting place for hands, bowls, plates.

(Published in Libertine Magazine 2007)