Perhaps the World Ends Here

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat 
   to live. 

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it 
   has been since creation, and it will go on. 

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the 
   corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to 
   be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around 
   our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down 
   selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the 
   table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun. 

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in 
   the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents 
   for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering 
   and remorse. We give thanks. 

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are
   laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

--Joy Harjo (1951- ), poet laureate of the United States 2019- , member of the Muscogee Nation, from The Woman Who Fell from the Sky, 1994.