tables
after Lisa Wamsley

piled documents and unused candles
on the table between us. can
we adjust our eyesight towards each other
like we do in the dark. father
leans eyes to his goulash, one hand
patient on napkin. my mother on
the phone three hours. Davey,
from the basement. i eat dinner in
my room to avoid hearing the names
of anyone that aren’t fictional or my own.
i don’t feel any closer to people at tables
anymore.
we break up over text & i eat my spaghetti
without choking on worry.