the rosary
the things I found as I went through your purse –
tobacco, condoms, a porcelain Buddha figurine.
in the morning my mother taped his obituary
to the mirror over the bathroom sink.
beside me, on the front bench-seat,
her bare knee just below the hem of her skirt.
apricots and shrapnel, my grandfather
remembered nothing else of the war.
the last time we kissed, my hand
on her back while hers clutched keys,
she’d remind me – felt nothing like the first.
my grandfather dead, arms folded
across his chest in the casket, his sister
straining to place a picture of Jesus into his shirt pocket.
If Erin Fell
The red-skinned potatoes cold in the pan,
the stick of butter soft mid-day, the grape
at the foot of the chair—bruised at the point
pulled from the stem, the candle wax
thick in carpet, the struggle of a ceiling fan
in its revolutions, the slice of bread
blackened and stiff on the toaster oven
tray, the dog-eared photo upright
against the napkin holder—leave as is.
The first time someone uttered “love
is blind,” they watched Butades’ daughter
trace the outline of a shadow on a city wall—
her hand quick in the setting sun.
