The chicken soup swirls with the ladle.
Garlic and pepper steam the kitchen.
Limp horseradish soaks
at the pot’s silver bottom.
White meat swims laps in the yellow broth.
Animals do fine without bones.
The clock strikes a new hour.
The oven timer goes off
(or does it). Outside,
snow blinds the world.
Shovels conceal pavement.
There is no good way home.
(originally published in Freshwater Literary Journal, Spring 2017)
Where I lived was a quiet crescendo
of snow six months of the year
& mosquito summers wearing shorts
into the sweating night
Where I lived had piano thunderstorm concertos
jolting the elderly house’s bones
with frenetic fingers, ivory paint,
Where I lived was a lonesome walking trail
where morning chirps of blue jays went unnoticed.
Beds of acorns lined the autumn grass,
a kind of fallout for the process of aging
and the act of leaving
Always, now, in thought, it is a shoebox
of dandelions that writhe when I pet the cold cardboard–
hello, you are home, tonsils– my heart
can’t handle the hand-shaped imprints
from so far away
(originally published in Rubbertop Review – Volume VII, 2015)