we miss and eat
Corningware and casserole are meaningless
unless splayed appropriately on a fellowship table,
spoon handles balanced over every ledge.
In the South, when one takes flight,
able loved ones set straight to the kitchen.
They grieve and cook the grits.
They press their fingerprints into cookies.
There is nothing left to do
but move clockwise in line at the table
and drink from the Common Living Cup
spurred to outright, bigger love
and the making of better pies.