Table
People gather. They
eat, drink, speak. They
are among themselves
happily. They
celebrate this or that
occasion.
The cat
does not like
the cat door I installed.
It is not transparent.
I removed the flap. Now
the cat goes through
an open opening.
A distant
sound, a small engine
in the sky. I recall
planes at night when
I was a child. I feared
they carried bombs.
There is something called
a transcendent table.
That is, the table does not
exist, but the idea does.
Plato’s table.
I wish to be clear.
Clarity is not the same
as the literal. I object
to the literal.
What does this mean?
We had best pay
attention
to what we care about.
This is an economy of means.
To observe that life
pivots between care
and neglect.
My mother, an
alcoholic,
was cruel
when she was drunk.
She inhabits the pole
of neglect.
Care within
a paradigm of neglect
is tricky if
there is no thought of
a transcendent table.
Notes:
This piece is part of the portfolio “How It Continues to Astonish: The Poetry of Ann Lauterbach.” You can read the rest of the portfolio in the March 2023 issue. All poems are from Door by Ann Lauterbach, published by Penguin, and printed here with the permission of the author.
Source: Poetry (March 2023)