Lisa McBride

Inheritance

Years of coffee, cigarette ash, and

politics stained its surface. Each night,

my grandmother ground them

down with a worn dishcloth until

only oak remained.

 

With every year, we stayed up later,

passing conversations like borrowed

china across that table.  Our huddled

voices burrowed through the wood

and the finish.

 

When I was twenty, she covered it

with a tablecloth. Our cups kept skidding

across the cheap plastic.  She cut it, checkered

squares to guard her hydrangeas

against October frost.

 

We speak now of our marriages, discarded

like last night’s table scraps.  Their crumbs

wedge themselves in the long cracks

of that kitchen table.  I flick them out,

night after night, with a butter knife.