Emilee Wirshing

we set the table

the sixteen stars in andromeda 

collect light from far away suns 

and send them homeward,

to be captured in telescopes

or noticed casually on a midnight stroll.

Sometimes we can see all the glittering novas,

other times, the pollution from 

nearby bedrooms and porch lamps

obscures the smaller orbs

asking us to imagine them instead.

in your mother’s dining room 

sits a grand table, with all the leaves in place:

a chair for every member of this family

some occupied, others implied.

Your mother’s four sons, 

(she once told me) owe her each four,

and her Sunday dinners are eager

for all sixteen of her grandchildren

even if they never quite arrive.