Conner’s Hands At Gram’s Table

Every evening

In a house north of home

A girl takes a cloth

And wipes clear the top

Of an old oak table

That rests upon a base

That is carved to look like a lyre.

The table is the color of saplings

In the spring of the year,

Shot through with green

In its knots and grains.

The girl’s hands know the table top.

Her hands know the end where she sits has a little dip in its surface,

From where her grandmother and great grandmother,

Even her great, great grandmother

Marked the oak with their paring knives,

Where they set their saucer and big cup of tea.

They might have sipped the hottest sip from the saucer.

The girl knows better than to sip tea from a saucer.

In honor of all her grandmothers,

She does it, anyway.