Perhaps the World Ends Here
by Joy Harjo
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.
Listen to Joy Harjo read the poem here.
3 Comments
The Kitchen Table at Seventy
ReplyDeleteMarbled pink and blue, soft as spring-washed skies,
The surface of my grandmother’s table
Gleams yet after generations of use,
The center of our coffee-warmed kitchens.
An Easter photo of me in my Mom’s arms
Survives: we wear dresses in my third month.
Her body cradles me, though she sits tall,
A proud mom at her mom's kitchen table
That would become my refuge; I would hide
Under it from my tall aunts and uncles
With cameras, only to be drawn out
For hugs, photos–love gifts to memory.
Now my writing table, here spirits gather,
Shaping stories of fathers, mothers.
Sandy, what a lovely tribute to a table that served three generations. I love the way you include a photograph that gives us an image of you, your mother, and your daughter to be. I also remember hiding under the table at my grandmothers house! Great place to play, too. The last two lines are wonderful: “Now my writing table, here spirits gather, shaping stories of fathers, mothers.“
ReplyDelete
ReplyDeleteMargaret’s Table
My mother’s table held sustenance for a family of four,
holiday hams and turkeys for the whole clan,
birthday cakes to celebrate our progress and growth.
My mother‘s table held cups of tea
with fresh banana bread and homemade hermits
to share with her three sisters,
while weaving the threads of their lives
in ever stronger bonds.
My mother‘s table held poster board, markers and pencils
for the art projects of her two girls;
the ephemera of communal craft-making
as we three fashioned bird cages
and topiary trees for family showers.
My mother‘s table held us close to its perimeter
as we ate our morning grapefruit and Cheerios,
tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches
for school-day lunches—and for supper,
fragrant Italian dishes learned from her mother-in-law.
My mother‘s table held the vibrations
of laughter, game playing and fun
from the generations who gathered there.
My mother‘s table held the tension of an unwanted change,
the absence of a father, the addition of a new man in the family.
My mother’s table held kindness and compassion
as my sister and I kept her company over jigsaw puzzles
and coloring books while she drifted into a
shadowed, compromised perception of the world.
Now, my mother’s table still holds us, in the dining room of my home.
I wipe its smooth surface, remembering the care she gave it
and the care she gave to us.
This simple table has seen much, knows much;
a living witness to our ways of being together.
As we sit shoulder to shoulder around its familiar curves,
I imagine all the vibrations absorbed by this sturdy maple servant.
They emanate and caress us with warm, grounded comfort,
connecting all who gather here.
Julie Cook