By Betsy K. Brown
Every month she pours the wine,
Every month she sets the table.
Insofar as she is able
She declares a day to dine
On a feast that’s smoothed as fine
As a newborn baby’s cradle.
Yet, like some unfinished fable
With a moral we can’t define
Still inside her house’s core,
The word barren. Never guests.
Pass the pepper, pass the salt.
Say again it’s not her fault
Every month the table is set,
Every month the wine is poured.
Betsy K. Brown is a poet, essayist, and long-time educator. Her work has appeared in many outlets, including Plough Quarterly, First Things, New Ohio Review, and AWP's The Writer's Notebook. She is a poetry editor for the Anselm Society and the author of City Nave and Leading a Seminar on Frankenstein. She lives with her husband and son in Arizona. You can read more of her work and contact her at betsykbrown.com.