Posts for June 9, 2026 (page 3)

Spurred by a young boy’s reckless curiosity,
my son — as in a nightmare — rushed toward danger.
I leapt, struck dumb with fear, and without a word,
I slapped him — straight across his smile.

My palm sank softly
into still-wet clay.
And every holy child,
inside each expecting woman,
flinched like a startled fish
and stood still.

Translated by Rosalia Ignatova

Red-checkered cloth flappin’
in the gust waves the family over
as surely as Gaga’s calls for Will-ard.

Papa was a Church of God minister,
but Gaga was his Archangel.
His guardian at the gate during his sweet

hour of prayer, his darling bride,
and his comforter in times of need.
Even through times of desperation

her food was her love.
She would be cooking before church,
after church, and sometimes during

(although we weren’t far from the house.)
Her aprons were functional rather than fashion,
her hair– permed, practical, and short–

never in the food!
She seldom wrote down her recipes,
or if she did, there was just a little something missing

not maliciously but naturally–
it’s not like she needed to measure
anything.

She alone prepared the feast
and she could turn this meal out in her sleep.
Her cookin was a dance I loved to watch–

at least until I was expelled by
that oven of a kitchen in August.
Today’s picnics are brought by

KFC or gas station chicken strips.
Gaga would never approve of the Apple
Market usurping her reign.

Nobody ate until Papa said grace
though, but then the picnic began.
Our reverence never waivered for the food.

The scald on her heaping piles of fried chicken
with extra drumsticks. The rivers of Land o’ lakes
butter pooling in the valleys of tall mashed potato

mountains– two bowls– one for us and one for my dad
(although sometimes his were fried
and served in the cast iron.)

Two kinds of tomatoes also: fried green that everyone
had already sampled- despite Gaga’s fussin
and thick sliced Heirloom. Corn on the cob,

green beans, watermelon, and cucumbers
straight from the garden– the last brinin’
in vinegar and sugar to cut the richness of the food–

and, finally, corn bread muffins.
At the “Amen,” nothing went to waste,
and, for Gaga, we are eternally thankful.

woke
    up still
 
here
    o wot a
           sham
   e.

little leather creature

A summer’s day in 1957
Our backyard where it grew
The mint, too, which we chewed
The wall supporting the yard and street behind
The garage and the space behind where we climbed
The fence next to Joe’s yard
Nonna picking the basil for cooking
Tomato plants struggling while Joe’s flourished
The swing set until we grew too tall
The peach tree with no fruit
Wasps’ nest on the garage gutters
Half the yard in concrete and the little fence to separate the garden
Whiffleball games in the yard
A scoreboard I made on the garage wall
Brian as catcher with his hat turned backwards
The whole yard in concrete and the chalked batter’s box
Pretending the upstairs porch was the broadcast booth
The upstairs porch with always threatens to fall in dreams
The zinnias Mom planted, leaves grainy to the touch
Nonno listening to the ballgame, transistor to his ear
The picnic table which became a boat a spaceship or anything we wanted.
Emptying the garage with all the stuff to play with
Nonna yelling in Italian to put all the stuff back
The back porch my Uncle Dewey redid in concrete
Nonna’s two back door, one which never locks in dreams
The night-blooming cirrus which came indoors to bloom
The swimming pool too small to swim in
Me on a tricycle in a black-and-white photo  

Me 70 years on
remembering.

the moon has terrible cafés –
the coffee tastes like burnt postcards
the syrup tastes faintly of batteries
and the eggs arrive folded into tiny origami boats
still, we go every morning

you sit across from me
wearing your new gravity,
stirring sugar into your cup

there are blue ketchup stains on the tablecloth –
continents from a country that collapsed politely
years ago

the waiter brings chewy bread
there is something holy
about difficult bread

I can’t remember if we’re divorced
or merely orbiting at a respectful distance

the moon jukebox only plays whale sounds
and a familiar song
that skips exactly before the word ‘’home’’

at the counter,
a child in silver boots
tries to pay for pancakes
with four beautiful rocks
the cook accepts them

this is why I love the moon
its economy is based entirely
on sentimentality and dust

you tell me Earth looked small last night
“it looked as small as a blue pill,” you say,
and butter another piece of bread
I nod as though I understand adulthood

through the window,
the dark opens forever in every direction
the kindest thing I’ve ever seen

the Earth looks to me like blue-green bacterial growth
with little foamy white republics multiplying in the dark

It is embarrassing to be alive this long

It is embarrassing to keep wanting breakfast

          small heart-shaped goggles
teen lifeguards wear mirror shades–
PLEASE     Watch our tadpoles

burn of anger,
                                             summon it,
hands numbed,
                                          a thin ribbon of
smoke unfurling 
                                          against the snow
 
                     blue-and-white
 
     aluminum 
 
 
 

II
spider’s web
                         held the lamp
                       huddled in the corner
                her closed mouth
                     try to speak    kneeled before her
pocketknife
 
                                      a few moments
nothing else.
 
                                       push it the rest of
the way through 
  
 
 
 
completing a stitch.
 
 
 
 
III
                                         breathing hard
 
                          steadied
      
           
                       finished
 
 
        sweat stung
 
 

               God’s name

 waved the blade
 
 
 
 
IIII
              rhododendron 
        light
                                             just enough 
                                                         Earthen
                          minutes
                                                     exhalation 
                                       slowly
 
 
 
                                     quietly
                 softly
                                    rhododendron 
 
 
 
                   soft and hesitant 
 
 
 
She lit the lamp.
 
    It was    evening.

This morning, poets, 
let us misbehave, & dare 
others do the like.