Poetry by Hilary King
Plate
A woman spends her days
passing out compliments,
her face a round plate.
She has her life’s work to do.
She does this instead.
She was trained for this,
taught by her mother’s
mother's mouth.
She thinks the plate is gold,
the compliments nutritious–see how carefully
she peels and slices.
She hands out so many
she has to grow another orchard.
Her hunger increases.
My knife cuts are sloppy.
The blade tips towards my wrist.
Still my life to do.
Family Hunger
Once our children grew, I removed their chairs
I thought our marriage wanted more room.
Instead our dead mothers eat dinner with us every night.
Mine conducts a symphony of exclamation points.
My husband’s mother demands he share his dessert.
He races to consume his portion, scrapes
the plate so long the porcelain winces.
Our dead fathers wait on us. Mine
like mist, tearstaining my face.
My husband’s impatiently.
He had work to do, he told everyone.
He had work to do, his memory tells everyone.
The kitchen stays crowded. We all starve.
