Monday, March 27, 2017

Memories and monuments

We still have the dented measuring cups and spoons my mother used all her long married life, and we use them too. We open the drawer to the right of the stove, and there they are, along with her rolling pin and biscuit cutter — a drawer full of memories and monuments. Her old flour sifter is on the top shelf in the spice cabinet. And there are dozens of other items, from implements to pans, trays to pots, knives — good god, and there are the cutting boards my father made shortly after the war, which there is no need to name, because there is ever and always only just one. Come home, my love, come home, and let us have children.

Saturday, March 25, 2017

A wild place

Cracks in the gutter sprouting dandelions,

laced with worms taken there by rain,

sky of clouds and geese hurried on by wind,

air scented, mad, and fresh —

remember, love, this is a wild place we’re in.

Thursday, March 23, 2017