Public Republic

M. J. Iuppa

Photo: sa_ku_ra

I set my desire in a cup and the cup into the sink
full of suds, and it sinks to the bottom unseen,

with mismatched plates and serrated knives coated
in butter and crumbs left to soak. . .

While we talk at the table
that belonged to my parents who knew how to create

privacy by pressing the buzzer hidden beneath the rug;
and keeping mum, an olive-skinned woman would

appear and float end to end, not interrupting the talk,
but clearing the plates as if it were a dream.

Everything had its place. . . .Unlike now, where
it’s drafty most of the time because someone has left

a door open, and anyone can come in unannounced
and ask: So what’s going on?

Candles flicker. We look up mid-sentence, and all
our quiet talk disappears . . .