One gets up
to stir the stars,
one makes the fire,
another blows on it
to keep it going;
and still they have time for play,

three women
hunched over a cup,
hands open in invitation
as the table tilts
in Rublev's icon,

three angels
with the same face.

My mother is the tree trunk I climb,
my grandmother's hands
kneading bread
make the table shake.

Tell me the story
of the three hungry angels
who appeared one day at Abraham's tent,
to make Sarah work
and laugh.