She irons it with her fingers

Threads of sand
were breaking the wrist
like an inverted heart...
in bitter beats,
other times acidic,
and, every now and then,
a sheaf of sweetness.
If crumbs had been left
hidden in each fold
of that tablecloth
less ironed
and more worn,
she would see the children's unease
and the parents' concealed smiles.
Everything was fine with toy glasses

and a withered gaze.
With her nose stopped up
she breathed differently,
she digested toothed words
through a throat of glass.

The steam escaped from the pot
and the bad breath of discord,
through the sly window.
The blade of the knife
was slitting justice's throat
while the fork tried
to hold the fragments together.
The salad tasted better
if the spoonful was light,
it helped to swallow whole
between the jaw and the palate...
between the living and the passive.
She cooked with frenzy...
she didn't notice the trembling,
the sensations were much the same
between the stew and the sweets.
The turns around the sun
forced the tablecloth to be folded
in half...
then in thirds.
Her lips even today...
perceive the tenor
on the rim of those glasses.

The table is too big now...
there is cutlery left over.
The chipped plates...
are too many.
The hunger and thirst for freshness
brim over in her bowl.
She slides her fingers
along the last quarter of frayed thread
that inhabits her.