Rachel Contreni Flynn

Fancy Dinner Party

I look down: fish on a plate stunned
by flame and butter, stuck in spicy dust.
A mysterious cricket-language goes on,
glad and satisfactory. But what if I cannot
harness my sadness? The table is gorgeous:
wide gold candles, bits of nature casually
sticking up here and there from glass columns.
Outside in the turn-around, a sweet sculpture
of two pale lambs with hornets nesting
in the stone. I often wake covered with a fine grit
that moves when I move. My coat is a joiner
of other coats, soaking in scents of mint
and suede and Joy. Something seems ...