A table scarred by knuckle bones and boxes,
brushed by dusty paperback pages,
polished with ash caught under wine-stained linen.

A table we lifted and heaved along between us
each time we moved to new rooms.

A table that held our board games and our mismatched dice,
that collected back together our scattered candles.

Our odd little altar.


Published in Door is a Jar (Issue 5, July 2017)