Table Manners

The pitcher is sweating on the lace.

Little tracks of water

running down the heavy glass.

In this light, the ice looks like teeth.

Someone across the table

is telling a joke with their mouth full

of pot roast and carrots.

I’m holding my breath.

I’m waiting for the crack of a hand—

no, for the room to go stone-still.

In that house, the water

didn't touch your throat

until the air was empty.

I sit here with a dry mouth,

watching the beads of moisture

pool on the wood.