Antebellum, 2003
by Carol Atkins
Marmalade this morning, she decided,
reaching for the small crystal bowl.
When the toast jumped
she buttered with a generous hand
calling, " Breakfast is ready."
She turned the golden scramble
from pan to plate,
flanking it with blackened bacon
the way he liked it.
She set the plates precisely,
aligning a slanted fork
and wondered at such luxury,
such abundance—
this privilege of deciding
what to eat today
is a function of abundance, the thought.
We have been so fortunate, so lucky.
She thought about the refugees,
their bomb-blasted rooms
their search for milk
and medicine.
Before he came to sit down
she replaced the everyday spoons
with old silver ones, his mother's.
(Not that he would notice, of course—
he never noticed things like that.)
"Looks nice," he said.
volume 10(6)
This poem is copyright © 2006,
Carol Atkins, all rights reserved.
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