The Sliced Table

I trace the knife marks
in my dead aunt’s table
and recall her slicing madly
while my uncle called her names.
The table is mine now
as is the yellow house;
the one my aunt bought
when she also ran away.
I am stricken by the revelation
that everything is too small here:
the one car garage,
the compact refrigerator,
the single chair alone.
In her bedroom
I sleep fitfully
as vivid dreams replay the moment
I lifted a tattered box
and its contents spilled to the floor.
He’d laughed then and swore
I would never make it.
On my own, I cringe in bed
when the neighbor’s dog barks;
I wonder if I locked the windows
or if those were footsteps I just heard.
Childhood prayers come to mind
as I whisper for guardian angels
and the guidance of my aunt,
who I can still see laughing
while sitting in the single chair
as she polished the sliced up table
that was destined to be mine.