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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Mary’s Table

You were in a star once,
who buys vinyl for a table.
Deep maroon,
the last shade of sun
on the sea.
This little table
will hold a glass by a chair,
or flowers under a window,
a book open to the next day.
She tells me
the wrought iron legs of this table
were from my mother.

I don’t remember them
but Mary does,
because in the star stuff
she’s made of,
tables recur over and over,
as do mothers and gardens,
and boys who grow into men
leaving glasses around emptied of beer,
or books half opened,
and something Mary makes from herself,
a table I can never throw away

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