Tables

by Chelsea Fonden

I have been looking for a kitchen table.
None of the tables for sale are right;
they are timid and boring,
nothing like
I want my kitchen.
I go to the park to watch the trees,
sitting on a bench with my coffee.
A man sits down next to me; I ask
what he knows about tables.
He has a face of old teeth
and takes six gleaming objects from his shirt pocket.
He rolls my jeans
up to the knees, his rough hands
polishing my legs into dull,
smooth expanses.
He begins to carve. I gasp
at his artistry, the way he deftly twists
his hooked and pointed tools, my legs
becoming antique, marvelous.
I hold my hands in my lap, grinning. He finishes up
with a flourish. I thank him
and rush back to my house, trailing
little streams of purple blood;
I know exactly what to look for now.