The world begins at the kitchen table.No matter what we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth, are brought and
prepared, set on the table. So it has
been from the beginning of creation,
and it will go on.
We chase children or dogs away from
it. Babies teeth at the corners. They
scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given
instructions on what it means to be
human. We make men at it, we make
women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies,
and ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they
put their arms around our children.
They laugh at us with our poor falling
down selves, and as we put ourselves
back together again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain,
an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have been began and ended at
this table, it is a place to hide in the
shadow of the terror. A place to
celebrate the sweetest of victories.
We have given birth at this table
and we have made plans to bury our
parents and loved ones.
At this table we sing with joy, with
sorrow. We pray of suffering and
of remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the
kitchen table, while we are laughing
and fighting, and crying, and eating
of the last sweet bite.
Poem by Joy Harjo
