~ Delta Poetry Review ~

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Until the Rice Boils Over

If I could have her make one more meal,
sweat onions and celery in a buttered skillet—

roast seared on all sides and set aside on a plate,
flour browning in the hot pan for gravy, her hands
busy like bumble bees over azaleas.
Sunlight
would turn the kitchen counters honey-gold,
and all clanks would make song.
I’d stand
as close to her as I could without getting in the way,
not a clumsy child just wanting one taste,
but
a parent myself, willing to wait my turn
until the children are done running the yard
and the dog has gone to ground under the bushes.

The waiting would be enough, no need
to hurry the fire under the rice.

There Is Wind

Yes, there is wind. And waves.
For now, the ghosts of trees
and lines of reeds remain.
The water, though, rises.
It warms. It rolls in like it
always has. It eats away,
washes out, deposits sand
somewhere else, somewhere
pelicans won’t be able to use it.
The water leaves whole islands
places where they will not
protect our shore. The water
carries its salt into new grass
and tree roots until whole maps
loosen, coastlines untie, until
wind and waves curve
over the horizon in every direction,
and only the shadows of clouds
break the water’s surface.

*Originally published in Parentheses Journal

Présage

I’ve had old people down the bayou
tell me animals carry all the truth

I need to know. Any snake hanging
from a tree means illness is on its way;

one swimming on top the water
says someone will leave you soon;

cattle sprawled out on the ground
open gates for a new storm;

a turtle staring at you before you notice it
sees something bent in your soul;

blue herons alone in the marsh call
for dead relatives, begging you to remember.

Should a cat drop a mole at your feet,
though, you need to turn and run.

*Originally Published in About Place Journal

The News, Again

My daughter wants to know
what that whale is thinking

carrying its dead calf around
on its snout for seventeen days.

I tell her its pain is probably a lot
like ours. We all do the best we can

with it. She wants to know
if the whale thinks its calf

will come back to life
if she just keeps carrying it.

I tell my daughter we all hold on
to hope as long as we can. She asks

if the whale’s hope is bigger
than ours because it's a whale.

I tell her all hope can swell
to fit our idea of God. She wants

to know if that hope dies, too,
if we don’t take care of it.

I think of how my eyes always
well up at Mass when we sing

“grant us peace,” and tell her
our souls give us hope that won’t die,

but it can turn like milk to cheese
if we keep it in the wrong place too long.

*Originally Published in Mineral Lit

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