Lost in Translation

With a clanking of non-stick pans shattering unstable dishes
stacked high like Babel, silence befell a house filled with murmurs
just moments before, replaced by the fermentation of soured words.
One day before summer break, steam rolled off the popcorn ceilings
and my mother was subdued by exhaustion. A spatula in hand like a whip
each day, she sat me at table to learn. She shaped her children the way
she kneaded fudge, adding a bit of sugar until they set. But,
I never could follow her instructions. I read history while she scrubbed
dishes, pulling plate after cup after spoon from water. She filled the dish-
rack and had to let them dry. Then washed another round after my father left
his thermos beside the sink. She pulled dishes from under my brother’s bed:
three cups and a random lid. She measured ingredients for my class party while she
ran fresh dishwater. She boiled sugar to 115 degrees, stirred in two parts
bitter and sweet. But she forgot the water and the sink overflowed.
Her candy mixture skipped soft-ball stage and went straight to hard-
cracked and scorched the bottom. The swing of a saucepan still char-crusted
across the room, left us staring at linoleum tile glazed with butter. Her tongue

blistered with words we hadn’t known – no, we ignored – and I remembered

the whistle of my grandmother’s teapot, indecipherable and crooning,

the sweat running down its side, warning the house that it was done.

Inheritance

Grandfather, you have permitted me use of the earth when you laid down
your shovel in the trenches of toppled-over tomato plants whose vines
were picked clean long ago. When you planted, you counted blessings
of warm rain on your brow when the sun blistered your skin, buried
your prayers deep within and pulled soil-stained hands from the ground.
You washed your hands in the river and nestled a lone duckling
like eggs in your hand before settling it into the paddling it had lost.

Your shovel stood against the trailer siding, its handle raised straight,
calling the seedlings to open up their eyes. I recall the first summer harvest,
bulbous fruits of vines inching upward like the black-winter caterpillars

at the kitchen window. Mother sliced through the ripeness, juices pooling

on the silicone cutting mat. We sat on concrete stairs totaling

the number of Mallards on the water. My toes grasping soil and

I imagine having webbed feet, so I too could swim,

but you told me hands can do even more.

Each season the stakes grew larger and we twisted twine, loose
as to not strangle the plants but enough to keep them standing.
We’d brush away gossamer webs, but you’d never kill the spider.
It was your way. Value cannot be measured by what we take
but maybe by what we leave, like in droplets capturing sunlight
and the endless reminders of the morning rain.

In Silence

Blistering red of sugar maple leaves among the picnic table
brings back memories of smoke from my father’s grill.
We sat for hours on the small porch just a few
feet from our neighborhood cul-de-sac, prodding the dark
charcoal of silence until it brimmed with heat. More words
than points on thousands of star-leaves, yet few were spoken.
I’d count the time with finger-pricks, sharp intrusions
I ached to know but unafraid to ask. Finally, as blood
swelled from one hard jab to my hand, I did.
“Do you plan on leaving?” I asked. The sound of beef
dropping on the hot rack seared deep into my mind.
My father paused before closing the lid.
“Get me some water, will you? It’s sweltering.”
As I filled a glass in the kitchen, my mother
sliced money makers from the garden and set
half-empty condiments out on the counter.
She pushed a platter of franks into my hand
but said nothing, then went back to slicing tomatoes.
The house was silent. My brothers and sister swam
outback in the inflatable pool I’d purchased.
Outside, at least we could hear the rustling of trees.
At least that’s what I told myself when I asked my father
again. Still, he said nothing and added to the rack over rolling
fire. He looked at me and forced a half-smile.
A pickup turned full-circle and exited, wrong turn I suppose.
Colors swirled in an eddy, then lost momentum –
leaves scattering like brushfire to the wind.

Matthew Gilbert received his M.A. in English Literature at East Tennessee State University. He served editor for The Mockingbird for the 2018-2019 issue. His poems have appeared in Echoes and Images, The Mockingbird, and The Red Mud Review.