My Dark Mahogany Table

You know the dark mahogany table you gave me?
The one where the dark stain has gone missing
and is surely a small triangle of canned chicken
that I’ve tried to eat every time I sat down today.
The table where the black edge is rough and too
high near the wall so as to appear to be a spider
reaching the table surface? That table with
the splotch of white paint so much like cream that
I must make coffee even at 2:44am? The one that
holds a memory of you when we had just met and
delivering the table, you said to me, “Here, love.”
I’ve never known if you meant, Here is a table. Or
Here is where I shall love you, in this house, for
the rest of our days.

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