Cherry Stems (audio only)
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The Dream of Knife, Fork, and Spoon
I can’t recall where to set the knife and spoon.
I can’t recall which side to place the napkin
or which bread plate belongs to me. Or
how to engage in benign chatter.
I can’t recall when more than one fork—
which to use first. Or what to make of this bowl of water.
I can’t see the place cards or recall any names.
The humiliation is impressive. The scorn.
No matter how much my brain “revises” the dinner
to see if the host was a family member—
I can’t recall which dish ran away with which spoon.
2016
Foreign Body
This is a poem on my other’s body,
I mean, my mother’s body, I mean the one
who saved her braid of blue-black hair
in a drawer when I was little.
Meaning one I could lean against —
against not in resistance. Fuzzy dress
of wuzzy one. Red lipstick one.
Kitchen one. Her one to me,
2017
To a No. 2 Yellow Pencil on May 1, 2020
To see you is to smell
your wood and lead shavings
that spill from the gray
metal pencil sharpener
nailed to the window sill
in Mrs. Rote's classroom—
all these decades ago. Today,
my mechanical one, empty,
2020