01; I WOULDN'T CALL THIS HOMESICKNESS
pinprick holes all over
the fading black tablecloth
mother has washed
over and over again
we sit at the dining table
and mother serves us
her anger on rusting plates
'the end is here'
reads the bold letters
on the front page
of father's newspaper,
which i spill lemonade on.
the same jug i made
from the batch of lemons
from the mart seven streets down the lamppost
where you first said
you like the sound of my name on your lips.