There’s a crack that runs the length of the table,
bloodless as an open vein long after
the heart has stopped beating.
I run my hand along it and think of
all the things I’ve spilt there over the years;
the tears that followed a toppled cup,
my quiet child’s voice sinking into the gap,
the troubles I couldn’t speak of,
my anger, like wine, staining.
I wonder if it’s a coincidence that the gash
stretches almost directly down the middle.
I stare at my family from one side,
from the other they reach out their hands.
The gap widens, until they are so far away
that I can’t see them anymore.
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