Across the Table

i crack pomegranate on the grass

spilling seeds like millions of swarming fire ants.

hands attached to wrinkled, lined faces

push up, creaking off the table

for gentle collecting, hand over hand

like weavers of broken threads

in tapestries of formed family meals.

we sit.

we feel the fire burn like fiberglass

and choose to eat

the pieces we pick up, taking them down through the body,

through the eyes of those across the table who stoop down with us.

the meal is hearty.

yet when I go to sift through seeds still spilled,

sprinklers spin on

telling me mud and bitter taste.

so I leave the seeds be

and cherish this table of familiar strangers.