Poetica Magazine

Like a dowry

Tightly pleated

Entombed in plastic

Fine flourish needle point

Ready for the next transformation

Spiffy and creased

The table cloth lies pristine.

My mother is in slow decline

Still fearful of the jackboots

She sits serene

Confident that the perfect cloth

Lies zapped, zipped and spotless

Just below the good silver

Ready for company

The white cloth resembles

A prayer shawl

Following its last incarnation

No doubt taken

Directly to the dry cleaner

For quick and sure restoration

A family profession

Landless, deracinated and despised

Like alchemists my ancestors

Created beauty from

Spirit alone

Thought possessed of special powers,

They were consigned to trample the universe

And forage for refuge

This is how they coped

They kept the silver polished

And made the floors sparkle

Not an errant stain on any surface

Two sets of dishes

A samovar

The kinder heard no evil