(after Christine Dumaine Leche)
I.
Penciled
fours and nines and lovely eights
shuffle across the blue-lined paper
mysterious as notes above the piano
II.
Souvenir
the shining trinket slept cool in the palm
good-time flowers and leaves like hands
waved on all the two-laned roads
III.
Litter
empty cans clink
on the pavement behind us
trying to catch up
1. Find a cat.
2. See if it wants to come live at your house.
3. Take it to your house anyway.
4. Feed it when it does a meow until you learn which meow means hungry.
5. Cross your fingers about the bathroom situation.
6. When it digs in the plant say, “Oh well, that is what comes of living with a creature that is curious.”
7. When it scratches your couch say, “Oh well, that is what comes of living with a creature with claws.”
8. Put foil on your plant and couch anyway. This is called training. It may or may not work.
9. Take to walking lightly so you don’t accidentally step on the cat’s tail or frighten it with abrupt movements.
10. Learn such phrases as, “Why are you licking me?” and, “Please don’t bite my toe.”
11. Take the cat to the vet. Hear the vet say, “This is a confident cat. There is no fear here.”
12. Say, “Thank you,” even though the cat was like that before you met it.
13. Pet the cat. Give it a scratching post and empty boxes as a peace offering.
14. Realize you will never “own” a cat. But if you pay attention to the one living with you, you may learn some things about cats and people.
15. Repeat.
My grandma’s coup de grace, reserved
only for Christmas Day dinner. Baked
in repurposed tin cans swaddled
in shallow pans of water.
The tantalizing aroma of brown sugar
and subtly spiced fruit saturated
her small home, an olfactory gift etched
into our collective memory. When we
sat down to the collaboration of family
recipes that comprised our feast,
the promise of grandma’s pudding
was the real bud tease.
Our noisy anticipation was matched,
tempo for tempo,
by Grandma’s bustle and expansive shooing
of all taste-seekers from her kitchen.
Only her daughters were allowed to serve
the slices of warm pudding topped
with smooth, delicate lemon sauce
and a dollop of freshly whipped cream.
Unforgettable!
After many years of delighting us, Grandma
retired as head holiday cook. Too many hours
of preparation, not enough energy. The torch
was passed to the next generation.
And Grandma’s masterpiece of a dessert
retired with her.
Mercury can’t be captured
The more you try the more
it breaks into smaller pieces each
rolling away at its own speed
My mother too
each piece a mystery
rolling away at its own speed
Just at dawn on this day
twenty-eight years ago she left
gone
gone
gone
One last rattling inbreath
One last soft outbreath
Sophie woman of moods woman of mystery
she who couldn’t be captured
she who wouldn’t obey the dictates
of polite suburban life
Sophie of the cigarette
firmly planted between redstained lips
pontificating
Sophie of the darkened room
silent, gone away, gone away gone away
Sophie of the soft word and the sweet caress
whispering comfort in my ear
Sophie of the headback laugh
eyes atwinkle, free as a mercury drop
Sophie woman of mystery
woman of moods
Mother, sister, daughter, friend
Woman
My childhood has collapsed,
built up with ruins, new shopping malls,
hotels giving themselves airs,
houses claiming historical significance, weeds.
The squatters do not recognize me,
and if they speak, they muddle my language.
If you’d like to purchase a cheap property in my childhood,
I have no access to this address.
Author: Marin Bodakov
Translator: Katerina Stoykova
Gone are column & filigree, the onlooking
crowds. Crisp brushwork gives way to mottled
impressions, thick impasto. No pearl shine
& forget the boasting of ruffles. Simplicity
over grandeur as his pageantry fades
to self-scrutiny. We didn’t know my mother
was dying when she started unloading
her favorite books by the dozens
& then her tchotchkes. She emptied
her Lady Buxton, her cedar
chest full to the top with coverlets
& needlepoint. Take it all,
she instructed. One night after Wheel
of Fortune she blurted the secret
of a flaky crust & firm
meringue. I scribbled it down. The den
was dark but her face bright
like a red-glowing camp
fire ember. In his last self-portrait,
Rembrandt dons a red coat, so dark
it treads to black. Brown walls
like deer fur surround him, the only
gleam from beneath the skin,
his forehead & cheeks afire.
These many years I’ve struggled
against the uncertainties
of what I do not know.
Never versed in the inner
workings of the implements
needed for farm work,
I’ve cussed, tinkered for days,
bothered kindly neighbors,
drove to Cain’s tractor repair
and come home with wrong parts
Today I stand in the shed
surrounddd by a trinity of woe:
a leaky gearbox, a tiller’s broken
arm and a hay mower
that will not engage, and
contemplate the common fate
of myself and my machines:
a half-life of usefulness
existing in the economy of old age.
Bound to the ground of this place,
we’ll do as we’ve always done:
limp along
get by
look for someone to take care of us
You came to army life a pup, a gift
to raw recruits training on a county
fair ground. You learned the ways
of army life, drills and routines.
Twice, when war was still glorious
and victory assured, you paraded
proudly in front of your regiment,
President Lincoln in the viewing stand.
Too soon you learned war
was not grand. It was cold and hunger
and terror and death. You stayed
with your soldiers anyway.
Then, July 1, 1863. Outside
an obscure town in Pennsylvania
your regiment fought, fell back,
air full of gunsmoke and confusion.
You were left behind. For three days,
the battle that would make Gettysburg
famous raged. At its end, your troops
found you where they left you,
on Oak Ridge, guarding the wounded
and the dead. You almost made it
through the war. A bullet killed you
just months before Appomattox.
Today your effigy lies at the base
of a monument, on the spot where
you spent three lonely, terrified days.
Only you have earned a bare earth
track tourist feet have trod
through lush fields, They come to stroke
your sleek bronze head, leave you
offerings of pennies and dog treats.
