The fine china tea cups still wrapped in newspaper,
my father's hunger vigil, and how i learned to keep
the universe from getting lonely at night.

my family never intended to use 
the good china plates-- we ask about them at Christmas
out of appreciation-- reverence even--
our table has turned into a carpet--
into a palm to hold mashed potatoes--
a forearm full of asparagus consecrated 
with a fist of Parmesan--
my father still stands vigil at
the counter to eat butterfly-wings of
ham-- honey beats us into a moon--
he watches the door like death is
still looking for him in the body
of a stray cat with patches all over
her thighs-- he drinks diet coke
there like penance-- stares at the
ham out of fear and hunger and hatred--
he doesn't want the cat to see him
eating with a fork and knife--
we keep the fine silverware in a
used box of gourmet chocolates and
spend half the year opening it the hopes
that it's been hiding one last 
peanut butter swirled truffle for us to
orbit-- 
it might be only me who glances at the
boxes of tea cups while we finish 
Christmas dinner 
i feel like i understand them somehow--
and my father still dares not chew the
hem from course skirt on the apple pie--
my mother tells him to eat but he only
glares at another cat pawing at the window--
my brothers don't think about utensils--
use two fingers like chopsticks-- navigate
a plate as cautious as the handle of a tea cup--
my father
stabs a fork in the meat-- our conquistador--
each tea cup on the shelf from the china set
is still headline-swaddled-- gold eye brows
raised at a sink full of left-sock 
dishes-- 
the tea cups judge us for washing
pizza crusts in the dish washer--
we're out of soap so we add another punch 
of shredded cheese-- our knuckles
broken into boulders of salt--
we diagnose ourselves with the polka-dots pox of
the slumped couch who is almost as tired
as my mother-- 
we are elbow people-- aluminum 
foil crowned-- gilded of a microwave
lightning bolt hurled from the bangles 
of a god who is weary of my father--
my father only sleeps on his elbows
and my mother remarks that the ham is 
getting cold and the ice cream on
the pie has turned to milk 
again-- 
for a moment he want to be a china tea cup
too-- we all do-- clean and secret like
the monotonous history of a newspaper--
i wait for them to sleep--
each melting into the
cracks of the sofa-- engulfing 
my family like a palm of mash potatoes--
our beds chew us with gums
and my father falls face-first into 
the lap of the apple pie--
we check to make sure
he's only sleeping before we go outside
to scare the stray cats off the porch--
we know they're not coming for my
father-- not yet-- but he doesn't know
that so he thinks he still has to keep 
watch-- and the dishes
fidget and try to wash themselves in the sink--
like the tea cups i'm the one who doesn't sleep here--
i shush a tea kettle and sit on the counter
beside where my father sleeps from his elbows--
someone has to keep the universe company 
when everyone else has forgotten about
the fine china-- 
it's just our little secret--
i open the window and the room turns
into a plate of stars stolen from
the boulders of salt we 
rolled like dice into mashed potatoes--
the universe sits there with me
and together we unravel the tea cups--
squint to watch them under
the glare of the moon gazing in at us like
a stray cat from the window--
have you ever seen the moon get down
on her knees? she does so only for a beautiful
tea cup or a spoon of sugar chai--
i tell the universe about our
family while i pet my father's
hair-- i tell her that we don't remember
where the dinner table went--
i tell her about the china we're drinking
from and the clamor of dishes in the
sink-- i tell her about my brothers
and their small chop stick fingers--
i laugh about the stains on my dress
and yawning of the sofa--
she thinks it's marvelous and cries
because she's lonely without
a table to approximate from a carpet--
she spends must nights alone
on a gold haloed plate quietly munching
a forest of asparagus--
she keeps herself clean for astronomers--
i pet her hair too and tell her that's what
our counter top is for-- 
so she comes back each Christmas--
helps me wash the two tea cups and put
them back-- brushes the night sky
out of the living room-- our little secret--
i wake up early to tell my father
to wipe the pie off his nose and eat--
only then is he too tired to refuse--