This cereal I stir —
a mistaken market buy —
the kind she cooked.
Silk milk swirls, stove light
glows gold and ice blue
on waves the sheen of new
snow. With heat beneath,
a sweet smell rises. Foam
breaks out as alabaster
grains mix to thick
drifting memories. I saw you,
flirting flapper, in the tarnished
silver frame. You were the eldest,
left coveted classes to help when
your father could no longer climb
into that bituminous pit. I saw
you sublimely posed,
in another frame beside
your white-trousered groom.
You combed my snarled curls
so hard, would not let me keep
the kitten. Afraid of gas left
burning, or that I might fall.
You wrung clothes with the old
Maytag after work — Third Floor,
Ladies Sportswear, Better Dresses —
in the cellar, in the night.
You washed stains
of my pubescent embarrassment,
said when sex was best,
thought yourself big boned,
became bent, shrunk. That night
you woke in fright…
It’s OK, it’s me…I’m your daughter.
You, who could play a saxophone,
balance books, stretch a ground beef
pound, like loaves and fishes. Here now…
cooking cream of wheat.
― appeared in The Coacella Review, March 2010