Serving dishes set in darking water
light bulb overhead and she is humming
tuned to talking gravy boats a common
conversation bourbon sips and father
sits, replayed, a perfect evening dinner.
Black hair slicked back−his hands scrubbed clean
he balances the stew and rice and nods.
My brother eats peas. The clock ticks over.
We sleep while she keeps rearranging chairs.
She sits in one drapes over another
moves the coffee table across the room.
She hums and the circle becomes a square
the view from there even more amenable
then drags them back, where they were, one by one.
Colleen Carias lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico. She creates films as another way of interpreting her poetry.
© 2013, Colleen Carias
Halfway Down the Stairs 