Thursday Lunch by Sandra Anfang

I take my fifteen minutes of naked sun in the patio, hidden by tall fences. The cats play tag in shady spots beneath my chair. Jasmine scatters scent like feather boas. A breeze winds through the red maples who hold their breath as if to conserve water against the heat. Where silence reigns, the throb of a Latin beat percolates the air. In the cadence of voices, a choir of workers at their lunch, the bubbling of a creek. I smell the sweat of warm tortillas, picture the careful unveiling of dish-toweled bundles, steam rising like hope for one more weekend with the family, a Friday round of Coronas, children splayed around the table for what might be their last supper together. On TV, a madman talks of barricading the border, building a wall. Maybe they’re afraid; perhaps they think it’s just a joke. For this moment, they have each other, corn tamales, and this day of good work, yellow sun, decent pay.

Sandra Anfang is a poet and visual artist. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals including Poetalk, San Francisco Peace and Hope, and Spillway. Her chapbook, Looking Glass Heart, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2016, and is available at and Sandra teaches poetry and hosts Rivertown Poets in Petaluma, California.