Farm Table
Carter Steinmann
I am west of where I was
holding still—
We wear white veils
fall from brims over face
lift crusted wooden slabs to light
let them see and be seen.
Bumbling madness—the bees.
Beauty is—
the creatures that
break bread together.
We’ll break bread together
with the honey we’ve gathered,
pooling in creases of crusts.
I built this farm table
when I was 22.
Soaked it with Richard’s polish,
beeswax and turpentine.
With an old rag
rubbed it slick,
and the wood licked it up.
This farm table here
where we break bread
where the mosquitoes always bite
and the beers sweat themselves warm.