"The Table" by Lydia Cruce

peering in through frosted glass

as you sit in a graveyard of cedar thrones

chins held high, 

hammering a plastic gavel with fisted hand

below you, 

The Table 

shakes

is your highchair tall enough?

if you could only see the angle I view you

when I crane my neck up to look

I am six feet under your gavel, 

facing the brunt of an unworldly violence

I may not be able to see much past the window’s glare,

but I can still see straight through you

I can see how

The Table,

stilted, 

crumbles

how odd that another voice determines me

tilting me on an axis, shifting my world until even gravity seems to slip

but The Room holds still, the people inside motionless.

how odd that the first time you saw me,

face blurred from the dripping rain,

you closed the drapes

creeping in through locked doors

as you char the crutch I could only hope to create

my hands splintered and calloused,

wood smooth under palm,

if I carve a seat for myself

how can you say, then

I have no place here?