Moment #8
Bubble wand struggles
to live. Breath carried away,
head above water.
If I lose the weight
I imagine it won’t be the same
And that now, with the roundness
Of youth and hormones gone
My stomach will not cup softly
Like a meadow green and dotted
With wildflowers ready to be plucked
But will fall sharply in rumpled mounds
All the roots and rocks sticking out
Like the creek cuts the bank as it bends,
All mud and silt and fast eddies ripple.
The Crust
Take just enough flour,
A pinch of salt, some Crisco
(How much?)
You don’t need to measure it, You’ll know when it’s right
Mix this together until it’s crumbly
Add just enough water to make The dough stick together
(How much water?)
Enough, not too much
(it should be frustratingly dry)
Split dough into two balls
Roll out on a lightly floured surface
(I read that you should refrigerate the dough)
Roll it immediately, refrigeration is for the weak
The dough should barely stick together
Swearing at the dough helps ensure a flaky crust
Line the pie pan with crust, cut off the extra dough
Pinch the edges with your fingers
Filling
Peel enough tart apples, preferably Granny Smith
(How many apples?)
Enough for a 9” crust, you’ll know it
Slice thin, but not too thin
Sprinkle tapioca on the bottom crust
To keep it from getting mushy
(I’ve read you should use flour)
That’s how the goyim do it, use tapioca
Toss the sliced apples on top
(I’ve seen them arranged neatly by others)
No one cares how they are arranged
Once the apples are in, add
Sugar, cinnamon, maybe nutmeg
(How much?)
Enough with the questions, just watch
Practice, get the feel
Place the top crust over the apples
Pinch to close
Cut a hole in the center of the crust
Make a funnel out of tinfoil, place it in the hole (
Why the funnel?)
So the juices won’t ruin the crust
Bake in the oven until done and ready to eat
(Until the kitchen smells like heaven And her memory is a blessing)
While the pie cooks, take the leftover dough
Reroll it and cut into circles using a shot glass
Sprinkle cinnamon sugar on the rounds and bake
Eat while hot so the cinnamon sugar burns your tongue
When the pie is done, remove from oven
Let cool until you can’t stand it
Then slice and eat
(let your tears fall onto the pie)
I make the world
by rubbing my worry stone.
You make the world
by rubbing your worry stone.
Corporations say
that they own God
but they’ll never, ever own
our worry stone.
Choosing a shorter haircut and primping
in a car window. Savoring
a woodfire pizza and toasting
with a craft beer. Navigating
road construction. Buying lettuce
at the farmer’s market. Reading
the next book on the nightstand.
Listening to the Reds on the radio
while sitting on the porch. Finding
a new tune for the playlist.
Moving the house plants
into the yard. Tuning in
to flashflood warnings. Wishing
for a ride in an old-school convertible.
I spread myself out in linen swaths across the sky,
poof up in puffy white and grey masses, too,
in the in-betweens— I, a virtuoso
of sky painting. My mother, Earth, proud.
I bring relief and nourishment, but yes,
I can carry deluges that carry destruction
that carry death— but I carry nothing
in hatred— no matter what those tiny
dots from below, who point long lenses
at me, may think. Now, as for the winds,
who determine my directions
and ways, perhaps the dots
might be more leary of them—
or perhaps of themselves.
I speak to unfamiliar gravestones
when I visit dead family and friends
I ask them if it’s true
that their replies are echoes in the stale air’s moans?
I ask them how they live
— now– after this life ends
I talk to unfamiliar gravestones
because I don’t know if anyone else does
I try to muster engaging conversations
about loyalty, friendship, and love
I laugh with unfamiliar gravestones
when a joke I share lands right
I listsen for their hallowed howls,
even though I know the quiet stirs the night
I watch shadows grow on unfamiliar gravestones
and take heed when the boneyard rattles
I make my way back to the living
swaying to a symphony of windspun growls and clatters
When the morning birds begin the chants
to raise the sun from its twiggy nest
I recognize the party is about to start,
an end to the hours I enjoy best,
the dropped needle quiet of middle night
the last of the rowdies off the road,
raccoons not yet fiddling with the garbage can lid.
So many times I’ve woken in that void
and needed a moment to locate the cave wall
in the pitch, interpret its grit,
find the guide rope to get my bearings again.
I start coffee and sit at the table
with yesterday’s unopened mail,
thinking of credit card offers, the news from DC,
trying to understand how the two
are umbilically connected, thoughts put on hold
while the coffeemaker wheezes
through the last of its drip.
My father’s last morning,
struggling to breathe, forced oxygen
hissing from the pillows in his nose,
my mother and I told him he could go.
Let go, we’ll be okay, we said. Let go.
And he did.
Of the Wilis’ fate in Giselle, I do wonder
If, in the end, one was still added to their number.
For what of Bathilde, at the end of day?
By Duke Albrecht was she, too, not betrayed?
Even if they married, she would always know
That her intended loved another so.
A maiden she so briefly called a friend
Before the girl’s life drew to bitter end.
Did the Wilis taunt dear Bathilde in her sleep
And make her crave the revenge that they keep?
Ah, poor Bathilde—but, such is the plight
Of minor roles when leads are out of sight.
For e’er will it remain a mystery
What you went through on Albrecht’s night of misery.
