White

He inherited the tightly folded linens,

starched corners, brittle creases,

bleached until they could no longer recall

every harsh argument around the table

that held them.

Every hem had been stitched shut with silence.

Every stain scrubbed until the blood

resembled rust

and flaked away.

I run my fingers along the monogram,

stitched by hands that had swallowed their own fire,

and marvel at the paradox;

how simmering anger can still

make something so delicate.

She embroidered flowers

no one ever named,

roots turned sharp by willful ignorance.

white thread

on white cotton

"elegant" defiance.

You had to tilt it toward the sun

just to see the blooms.

He told me how on Sundays

she laid it on the table,

a weekly treaty,

a wound she dared anyone to set a plate on.

They never noticed, too busy carving the meat.

The white flag was already folded.

The surrender came with matching napkins.

Now he keeps it in a box

lined with cedar

and the scream he keeps folded beneath it.

I tell him:

use them

or burn them,

but never pretend they were clean.

Participant's Poems