A MIDNIGHT DINER
I.
She shuffles in,
the bags beneath her eyes
dragging across the floor
and while everyone sleeps,
she preps the stock.
Rows of onions beside her black
boiling pot.
II.
With the smell of
burning earth
the skin crackles
and pops—
red globes of pregnant fruit
like bloody heads
atop a pike.
III.
The rice passes
through her palms
like stones drifting
in a pond.
She looks down
and checks the time,
noticing her
swollen fingers
and the thin blue veins
roaming like rivers
up and down her arms.
IV.
I wonder if while she mops
she notices the glass above
the door—
the light pooling on the panes
and the sudden shimmer
of summer sun
Resting on her head like a
halo
and how for a moment
she danced with angels
and that her labor here
was but a temporary
sorrow.
V.
Across the room
a couple breathes their last,
whatever love they had left
carelessly strewn across the floor.
VI.
The steak hits the grill
with all the vengeance
of a scorned lover
while she mutters under her
breath
something like a prayer
and somewhere between
well-done and rare
she looks up at the
virgin with tears in her eyes
and stars running through
her hair.
VII.
Sunset gives way
to moonrise
and moonrise
gives birth to dawn
(the unchanging cycle
of timeless days)—
she picks up her pot
and scrubs her hands
raw.