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Photo © 2024 Jennifer Wagner |
Two years
was not long enough
to know your light.
You gave me
your handwritten recipe
for orange marmalade;
your daughters gave me
your cookbook holder,
serving bowl,
a vessel of sun
from your backyard—
and spaces to hold
the reminder
of your smile.
My sweet neighbor, Sarah, passed away on August 31st. Her husband, John, passed away on September 2nd, but that is another poem.
I am naked here,
arms stretched wide.
I’ve removed my apron,
my soles are rooted,
sandals tossed aside—
shaking my papery skins
of ochre, amber, umber,
deep chestnut brown
whistling down
as autumn storms
cause them to do
a little tune,
wild and flush,
like milk, like honey,
like money, or better—
the sound
of the storm-crested
rustling of two.
On the menu:
chocolate cakes.
Two, to be exact.
One with espresso in the batter, one
without.
One apple cake, one apple crisp.
One chocolate chip banana bread.
I am making these,
which I do not eat.
Pretzel peanut butter cookies are next,
or your mom’s pistachio bundt,
or pumpkin spice cupcakes,
some with sprinkles, some
without.
I will probably not eat much of them either.
Strangely, I am baking as if they are
for repast post funeral, attempts
at forgetting your superpowers,
the ones that always weakened,
arrested me.
Still wanting you to hold me,
settling for within,
but
without.