the tables

The Tables
by Troy Cady

1. the dining table

In my house stands a table
whose wood bears the imprint
of children and parents;
here lies a fable
of all that is good,
honest,
heartbreaking,

and fine,
impressed on soft pale pine.

You can make out
the free squiggles,
whimsically drawn giggles,
spirals turning dervishly,
sticks dancing
and horses prancing
across the grain.
There is the sun (unclouded)
shining on the flower (never withered),
next to the house (well-weathered)
and soldier lines of grass (neatly trimmed).
And the word MOM or WOW
which mean the same thing
right side up or left end down.

At this table you’ll find,
indented forever,
the question
and quote.
Epiphanies are marked with a long exclamation,
though most phrases end with a full stop, somehow larger still.

At this table,
wishes of happiness
were written
and pencil nibs bit in
the wood,
blessings for father
from the hands of babies,
good health and spiritual wealth.

But, at this table,
there are also The Numbers:
Math problems
whose answers were gained
in pain
(like tooth extractions)
among such distractions
as
singing brothers
and chatting mothers
and cutting, quizzing,
impatient fathers.
(Water bathed the surface
as warm as tears,
the slab now softer still
for sorrow’s sake).

At this table,
notes of forgiveness were penned,
sins confessed,
absolution conferred.
Such marks are fainter,
yet surely form
the varied, subtle contours
of the wood.

Reading these letters in the wood
proves difficult for the seeing.
But the blind understand
by touch.
The sightless
read history in Braille.
They decipher the code with sensitive fingers.
They are the interpreters of the invisible,
yet truly present.


2. The Dining Table

In my house sits a table,
low to the ground, stable,
at which a servant reclined,
to dine,
one last time.

Its wood bears the imprint
of all that is good
and honest
and heartbreaking

and fine, and crimes
impressed on soft pale pine.

At this table sits
God in flesh dancing and prancing
across the grain
while devils spiral, turning dervishes.

At this table sits
the sun (clouded),
its brilliance dimmed
to spare
the fair flower
(now most withered)

At this table you’ll find
the quote and the question.
And shock befriended silence,
as exclamations
became exhalations
and declarations
of sacrifice
became full stops.

Yet at this table,
there is yet wine,
blessings and bread from pierced hands
for the mouths of babes,
good health and spiritual wealth.

But, at this table,
there are also The Numbers:
thirty pieces and
twelve persons
that track sins
and stack faults

and I and he are numbered with the transgressors

(And water bathed my feet
as warm as tears,
my heart no softer still
for sorrow’s sake).

But
at this table,
a note of forgiveness was whispered,
and its sound
wound
its way around
the earth
and my heart
tethering mine to his in
chords of mercy,
forever bound.

And at this table, absolution
precedes confession,
for those who are yet to come
can ever sit and see the
nail bite in the wood
already present,
(Such marks form its
enduring contours)

Before a curse is on my lips
and lust is in my heart
grace adorns this feast
and I am hungry and blind.

But the sightless understand by touch.
They read his story with sensitive fingers.
They are the interpreters of the invisible,
yet truly present.

Reading the wood
proves difficult for the seeing and sated.

Make me hungry and blind.