The Kitchen Table

By Bradley Treuer

The silverware gleams, the food steams, the dishes forks and spoons
have lined up straight.
Even the candle flames stubbornly refuse to pause their relentless
burning, burning, burning
to lend an ear to the echoes of the screams.

Even while the house and street
have paused to gasp, the food continues to present itself...
the kitchen table knows the secret.
Nobody is here to eat,
the chefs, nowhere to be seen.

Only here lies the kitchen table
and a murmur of the screams.

Snowflakes drift out of the night,
to weave in columns under the streetlights.
Down this darkened street, beyond the lonely welcome mat,
down the hall, behind the stair
lies only the kitchen table
and a whisper of the screams.

The wind refuses to play with the trees outside.
Not a sound of traffic gives sign of life
on the taciturn street.
All have paused to listen, and let the silence of the street resound.

There is not a soul to eat
nor ear to hear
the silence of the screams.
Yet the steam still steams from the food on the kitchen table.

Read Bradley Treuer's Poem "My Dangerous Voice"