How Many Spoonsful

for Tracy

The heritage of spoon life is selfless. Pinch of control. Drops of gratitude.
Recipes lost, recreated. Sugar bowl broken. But hold the filigree
between three fingers as witness to the low places rubbed tenderly

with repeated use. Middles revealing favorite

spoon. Not straw. Not knife. Not pencil. Hollow shaped to baby’s early palate.
Cupped hand feeding heart and medicine. Nest.

Morsels. Head on straight. Body tapering to obligation, to waist and silver flare
of hand picked dress. Necklace fleur de lis and necessary scoop of chicken soup.
Teaspoon of anxious soothed with thick, sticky honey.

History of food fights settle in this slingshot. Instrument and measure, these utensils

we pull from the shadowy bottom drawer. Patient is this tea bag rest after hours upright working. This spoon and all its forever conversation is yours now.

Spooning up a brand new decade. Old things and shiny replacements. Song in spoon. Dance tune. Still life of plant with seed pods resembling silver dollars, the timeless silhouette of your mother’s hair.

Comments

Grit and Sunlight

What springs up: insistence in this persistent mother of mine (still breathing) Even busy ashes from a rescued urn float up reconstituted as morning dew She unfolds her tendril arms from shadow (shaking just five days ago as if in temporary surrender) (that moment when I am less certain of her longevity) this woman ever present (anyone’s mother) aging when even the most spindly clover of her fragile skin captures the sunrise light like anticipation’s shower blood underneath all humming bird or spores from her heart and in her mouth inhale (frightened) breath exhale grit inhale (certain) breath exhale grit

Open Mic, Cafe Babar

I remember arriving, not the prettiest but appealing to certain bards in the back room, entering through the Castro Valley corner door, walking the postage stamp sized Cinzano bar curated by a man from Detroit who named his establishment after a certain French elephant in a children’s book I arrive with budding consciousness around politically correct solidarity for disheveled neighbors, entering the cigarette lit night rising to tin siding ceiling to floor thumping insistence Bruce and Joie and David and Laura and John, their ash and sweat accumulating as I waited patiently for my place on the crumpled sign-up sheet Today, three decades later, I sit in a Santa Fe gallery named simply Here, and a poet reads to us of roadrunners and a bear and a continuation of the call for preservation of our environment There is an otherworldly hum outside the window of leaded glass The owner sidles up behind me and pushes the frame down to contain what we came to hear I have applied lipstick

A Matter of Travel

Solstice, 2019, for Tracy 1. And cross borders we do often without leaving our houses. Our bodies dream of gardens. Our hands flutter as feeling exits as we press hard against the solid entry door. I type the names of cities. My search reveals rivers, airfares, temperatures in July. 2. Seeking sleep, I am transported through music piped into tiny earbuds. While on an island my father has two seizures in the night. His ten children fly to one another with cautionary fright, typing. Time zones vary from each cell phone exclamation. Two sisters, you and I, raise questions that barely touch down for others but I witness you. 3. By morning we’re assured was merely fainting, and I reconsider change of plans. No emergency to rush to his quiet side. I walk no farther instead to this table for eggs, an English muffin. Arrive inside my individual conclusions. Concern that happiness, once again, is quickly stymied.

As Mourning Doves Persist

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