The Bayou Review

On those polished mornings  

at the mahogany table  

draped with the fine weave  

of the egg-white cloth  

with a Wedgewood bowl of figs,  

breakfast commenced.   

Torn: from the sprawling    

white-trunked wide-leafed tree, 

so much  

fleshy pulp and particulate seed   

we spooned up  

with fatally polished   

familial silver,  

the sweet cream  

rimming the bowl  

as thick and rich  

on the tongue   

as the days we assumed   

were to come.