Evening Meal in the Twentieth Century

How is it I can eat bread here and cut meat ,
And in quiet shake salt, speak of the meal,
Pour water, serve my son’s small plate?
Here now I love too well my wife’s gold hair combed,
Her voice, her violin, our books on shelves in another room,
The tall chest shining darkly in supper-light.
I have read tonight
The sudden meaningless foreign violent death
Of a great man we both loved, hope
For a country not ours killed. But blacker than print:
For his million people no house now. For me
A new hurt to the old health of the heart once more:
That sore, that heavy, that dull and I think now incurable
Seeing love hated, seeing real death,
Knowing evil alive I was taught was conquered.
How shall I cut this bread gladly, unless more share
The day’s meals I earn?
Or offer my wife this meat from our fire, our fortune?
It should not have taken me so long to learn.
But how can I speak aloud at my own table tonight
And not curse my own food, not cry out death,
And not frighten my young son?