Sunday Brunch
On this day we are given
tenderly poached eggs
toast buttered & cut
on the diagonal
iris buds opening just in time
their clear vase refracting sunlight
on the smooth cherry-wood table.
As we mothers are handed
perfectly-frothed cappuccinos
signal & sign of abundance
there are other mothers watching—
in gutted Gaza
the grieving mother
searches bodies
piled in the morgue
for her only son
the desperate mother
four children
her husband
her father
her sisters
all buried beneath
bombed buildings
she pulls her crying baby
to dry breast
all that is left
signal & sign
her silent statement
to the barking soldiers:
There is a child here.
I am a mother, you
a son, daughter, perhaps
you are a parent too.
That same moment we lift
steaming mugs sprinkled with cocoa
just so
just for us.
Sunday brunch
in this technicolor paradise
& they all watch
waiting for our silence
to break.
By Elisa Salasin
Biography:
Elisa Salasin is a poet and educator based in Berkeley, CA. She has poetry, essays, and photography published in Colossus:Freedom and Colossus:Body, AMP:always electric, SF Public Library Poem of the Day, sPARKLE & bLINK, CounterPunch, and the Bay Area Writing Project’s Digital Paper. She also co-curates the Oakland-based reading and open mic series, Starting Points. Her first chapbook, She Watches Wild Horses, was published in 2023 by Finishing Line Press.