table setting 

my brother & i set a table
under the blue tarp sky that's keeping
the hail from smacking down 
on the fine china. forks
go to the left? a ribbon of gold.
we trace on the gold on the utensils 
because it makes us feel fancy.
he points to my arm & asks 
what happened & i explain that 
underneath the skin we have 
layers of gold-- my wrists
are a crosshatching of gold. 
spoons standing
up in the center of the plate
at attention like soldiers
ready for pudding. we spend
forever balancing them
& it's especially hard because
the hail is turning into rock
just upstairs. a spilling
of bucket after bucket 
of rocks. i tell my brother
to get under the table 
if he's scared & i'll keep
working. i take the knives &
jam them into the table
all of the forehead first 
right above the plates
so as to make sundials 
if the sun ever eats all 
the blue tarps away. we sit
at both heads of the table
& laugh because it looks silly.
i love my brother & we eat 
every dinner together like this,
raising our utensils & biting
invisible forkfuls of food.
he says, tonight i'm having
bratwurst & sauerkraut
i nod & say i'm having a plate
full of lettuce 
& he passes me the dressing 
because he knows i should consume 
more fantastically & for
a moment or two i do think about
angel hair pasta which i think
is disgusting & stringy--
i do this to focus on the lettuce.
a stone breaks through the tarp
& shatters one of the nice plates.
we don't panic. we have known this 
would happen. it's just a blue tarp.
we pick up the pieces
together & i tell him
we can't go walking in here 
with bare feet. in the trash
the dish hums to itself as if
to sing its own farewell. 
we carry on with dinner 
& then go to sleep 
beneath the table with eight legs
the flex all night--
this wonderful beast 
& we tell the table hush
& stand tall 
& sleep with us.