wings

in the current breadless granolaless conditions
i halve the buttery biscuit recipe
and sift, mix, cut, bake
my breakfast
filling the cool morning kitchen
with some oven heat
_______
after breakfast, before lunch
emory offering half a slice of chocolate cake
baked by his grandma
(double layer, frosting)
that we go fetch from the walk in
and split with dottie too
_______
wings the padded envelope is labeled
and i say save because
they deserve a proper burial
not even necessarily because i want to keep them
to which amy responds by saying
hold on a second
and reappears wearing
faerie wings which i
love and appreciate immensely
in the midst of my stuff-anxiety swirls
_______

although she gets it
which means i thank certain things before they head trashwards
there is still a sort of grief (unnamed phenomena?)
about not being able to sort through
and touch w/ my own hands
before letting go:
a glass bottle with the word exuberance
etched into it
(how when tuesday handed it to me,
across the red and black counter
[only i was the one working and she
was the one special deliverying it]
it was wrapped in a fuchsia  satin scrap
and filled with a just juiced concoction and
the train on its tracks rumble-roared nearby and
the crocuses and daphney occupied with business
of unfurling themselves,
the hot hot heat of a current
conduited between our fingers
as she handed over and i received)

neatly folded rectangle of fabric:
duvet cover passed down from grandma

everything in the blue crate and desk box
that went by in a blur that im not exactly sure
i’m saying farewell too

the cracked earthheart mug
which amy insists but it’s broken
and to which i respond but
i love it and i worked there and
unable to say in a short string of words
how objects hold history
and that mug is fall in green bay
1998 in a steamy kitchen
where i first learned about kale,
where i layered lasagna in steam table pans,
where i found a job that didn’t feel like a job but a family,
where the ginger tea made with real ginger
was my first and was always hot in the carafe
until we poured what was left out (or took it home)
at the end of the day
where the windows filled with steam
as i scooped out the scrap
from the hot pot of veggie stock
just lifted off stove

and perhaps somewhere in there
whooshing off in the rush
of trying to streamline the process
are pieces of paper with grandma siedlewski’s handwriting on them
(one of only two things
i asked mom to save for me
from her house
after she left –
the other was a rosary
which i’m hoping is in the box labeled magic)

the nightmare of
even though we are skyping
not being able to fully see
what i am releasing
and the nightmare of
all the things i would donate
that i hear being tossed into a bag heading trashwards
and the nightmare of
the things she encourages me to keep
(a plate with a donkey and boy printed on it,
a childrens spoon whose handle is a bunny)
and the things she asks to toss
because they are gross or broken or
the story isn’t clear
(including the eye pillow i made
filled with flax and lavender
that i stitched-together with fabric
that was once sheets i slept wrapped in as a kiddo)
_______
toile i learn is the name
for the old french countryside scene-printed fabric
i say i do not need/want
and offer to her
_______

the sculptural touches
on the lunch late plate
joseph made up and others
artistified:
toothpick poked vertical into the cornbread,
an upside down wood spoon poked into the grits
along with the stem of a spinach leaf
_______
we, who have never met before
but have been in communication
because of a collection of boxes of stuff,
and a trailer and a 1976 chevy impala heading east
in the coming weeks,
wish each other shabbat shalom
_______
the cold pads of moonstar’s paws

on this 40-something degree night
after i open my window signaled
by her meows
to let her in
runty brunty i call her
as she circles my lap

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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