Something about the sound of sneakers on hardwood
The sound of ball through a net, bouncing off the floor
Brings us all together, for a little while, every single fall
It gets us through the long, bitter months of the winter
Rallying us in spring in the striving for one more banner

Is there anything better than Kentucky basketball? 

It must be so nice to be perfect,

to be an expert on everything

to be above reproach

to always have the right opinion

and to never apologize,

to be God’s favorite

and to always be right

no matter who you hurt,

to never consider others

beyond your own loved ones,

to always have the control,

to rewrite history to your liking.

It must be so nice to be perfect.

It must be so nice to be you.

A girl I once called “friend”
told me shame isn’t a productive emotion,  
so why do I bury myself in laundry at its name?

If I slip on headphones and blast Gracie Abrams
and attack the kitchen counter with soap and water
will you forget I disappointed you?

Sweeping hardwood and mopping tile
lighting candles to burn away the smell of my mistakes
Picture perfect, dust the frame.

If I fold my sins into brownies 
like mothers hiding broccoli
will you forget what they tasted like?

            the end of a dream,
            I could hear birds singing,
            ringing against the walls,
            calls uncanny in the cistern.

Hey! Hey come back here!
Open your mouth and let me 
see what you’re eating! 

Between my grandmother and her sister,
the sibling rivalry was fierce.
They scrutinized each other’s
gardens, hairdos, children.
They compared the sheen of their floors,
the design of their quilts,
the crispness of the pickles they canned
and placed in cellars.  

They compared their cellars  

Any hug was followed
by pursed lips and narrowed eyes.
They expertly wielded
faint praise that damned.  

However, the following was undeniable,
even to my grandmother:
Marie’s breakfast potatoes with onions were stellar.
Everyone clamored for Marie’s chocolate-chip cookie recipe.
The mincemeat pies on holiday tables should be made by Marie,
and Marie alone.  

When I married, Marie gave me a recipe card,
the type of card with lines on it,
with “From the Kitchen of…” written on top
and a picture of a rolling pin in the corner.  

It said:
Salt pork renders the best grease
for fried potatoes.
Save your chicken fat
for chocolate chip cookies.
You must use beef suet
in your mincemeat.  

And Grandma’s comment on Marie’s culinary advice?
“Say what you like about Marie, she is certainly an expert on fat.”

Because no camera could capture it

June’s clever music box

In my lifetime
two people have polished my shoes
unsolicited
just because it needed doing
and they loved me.

But today it’s just me
to do what needs to be done.
My black clogs worn almost daily
now scuffed beyond what’s tolerable.

I find my shoeshine bag
I hadn’t thought of for years
still carrying its life-long accumulations–
polishes in oxblood, tan and black–
cans pried open with a penny–
the oily aroma I remember from childhood.

Just as I did years ago,
I dump the contents of the bag
onto an old newspaper on the floor.

I set aside from the rest
the yellow saddle soap
and then the black polish,
a wood-handled brush and a soft cloth.

In imitation of my father,
I methodically clean, polish, brush
and shine with an old cotton tee shirt.

I’m role playing
for those who loved me,
who showed me how to love.

reach for me as crepuscule obscures time’s passage–
flesh understands desire is transtemporal
hearts and minds know circumstance is not

live in words filling pages that will become immortal 
once our souls part from ephemeral existence 

craft a caim for this moment
conjur a spirit to strike a bargain for a future promise

to meet again–
as inextinguishable light seeking refuge beneath the horizon
as delicate illumination sparkling in disguise as marmoris
as impassioned orbs destined to converge in sempiternal ecstasy