thursday night dinner
and we three not in exams
cut up eggplant to place
in oiled pans, stir spices
into milk and crush
garlic under our palms
we are women who know
what it is to give and so
we touch one another
and so the fourth comes
home tired and ready to be
shown love—she kisses
one of us as though she has
done it a thousand times before
and she has—I do not blink
when the women embrace
I just separate the bell
peppers from themselves
we eat on the small table in
what used to be a ballroom
at least, that is what I think
it must be—the house an old
mansion repurposed for more
menial needs—the needs of
women who must carve out
a space for themselves in the world
of light the lamp has thrown