Country Dinners

by Elizabeth Oxley

It was nothing for her to turn out

two pies after church. Engraved,

her napkin holder implored Bless

O Lord. First came gravy and meat,

dandelion leaves dressed. In the lull

before dessert, my brothers and I

pushed back from the table—parting

Victorian shadows, exploring

attic nooks. We sifted through

photos, ran our fingers across

her typewriter’s cold metal,

watched each key throw its punch.

Her house struck us like a temple

to a distant age: cut glass jars

and standing clocks. When she called us

to the kitchen, we spooned up crusts

beneath a picture of The Last Supper.

Everything she did, she did in the name

of that man’s heart red as a wild July

strawberry. Finished, we slipped upstairs

again—children on the quest

for lost things, trespassing through dust

suspended in custard sunlight,

finding a soldier’s uniform hung

inside a closet as if, sleeved in wool,

our grandfather might any minute

climb back down from heaven.