When we're around the table, faith
tilling the earth of my father's prayer,
I peek at the polished oak, its knots

like bone sockets bloomed in wood. My sisters' arms,
their crossed legs, must surely feel alive
like mine: a lidded heat, the steam

that sighs from crystal bowls,
handed down. God knows us this way,
counts every missing hair,

pools blood into bruises, His numinous eye 
on the body's daily failings. Tonight
I watch my mother

spoon peas from the palm of her plate,
her best china for the occasion
of my coming home. 

In group we painted yellow suns,
I painted knots instead—
little unknowable minds.

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