by Abe Asher
Salmon, with a maple glaze,
Lying rigidly next to a squash puree and roasted corn,
And Sandy Hook.
On this night it’s pasta, prepared between
Bits of bacon and pricked cherry tomatoes,
As tears for Paris fall into the simmering sauce.
Tonight it’s American stuff —
Red meat oozing blood, golden fried potatoes,
Lightly spiced green beans, and hung heads for the Fritzes.
Now it’s chicken curry, dull colors
Flowing together over the sticky, prissy white rice,
With pained thoughts for [fill-in-the-blank].
We hold hands and fall silent,
Earnest, and shortsighted, trying to survive.
We can’t remember all the places we prayed for,
And then forgot as our food waited.
Instead, we remember our routine.
We feel, when we pause,
The malaise of grief that is far
Too familiar and too wide to puncture.