Jetsam -- by Kim Ode

Tree trunks, white as marble.
Coffee mugs with curses in their wake.
Great bales of beaver pelts, once.
An anchor, and over there, another.
From the sand, the prow of a voyageur canoe
Breaks the lake bottom's liquid lines.
Occasionally there is a new thing
Binoculars
Sunglasses
A fishing rod
Each descends at a different speed
Sinking through the fathoms into darkness.
Irretrievable.
A fish once, with a flick of its tail, avoided
A collision with an empty pickle jar
On its way down.
It clinked against the anchor
Breaking into vinegary shards.
Given enough wind and waves
And time
It stands a good chance of ending up
As seaglass on some scrounger's shelf.
If only it can achieve a beach.

Someday I Will Complain of Heat -- by Kim Ode

I'm tired of stomping my shoes

Before I walk into a building,

Bound by the grim etiquette

Of dutifully shedding slush.

I'm tired of looking for my other glove

And embarrassed by how I cling

To the hope that I'll find it,

As if this winter should be any different.

I'm tired of mincing along sidewalks

In that stupid flat-footed waddle,

And hearing about your ice dam

And imagining panty hose on your roof.

I'm tired of looking out on a world

Sketched in pen-and-ink,

And dream of when Dorothy opened that door.

Mostly, I want that door.

I'm tired of knowing that Per Hansa's body

Wasn't found until the next May

Yet unthawed after seeking refuge

In a distant haystack.

I'm tired of coping with March,

Which isn't that different from coping with February.

I dream of the day that I grow tired

Of looking for my sunglasses.

They call them fault lines,
As if someone merits blame.
Oh, creationists.
                 
              -- Kim Ode

Fight of the Century - by Klecko

As the son of a drunkard - I had to be patient
Since intentions and whiskey don't mix

On Fridays in April - My father would call me
It was always late in the evening

He'd promise adventures - We'd go to the circus
Everything would be first class

But, the pinball machines - and slurring background
Made me wonder if it would turn out like last year

By the time I was 7 - I couldn't pick him out of a police line up
He left L.A. before I turned 2

He got bored rather easily - And married 5 times
Each wife bore him a daughter

I was the only son - from his first betrothed
We eventually relocated in the Midwest

Then on one day - The date was March 8th
He decided it was time to catch up

A lout in an Impala - Pulled into our driveway
The guy who got out looked like Jackie Gleason

Our homecoming was surreal - when he lifted up his fists
While asking "Boy do you like to scrap?"

I didn't answer the question - so he pulled out 2 tickets
We were going to the fight of the century

My mother was tentitive - But, eventually released her grip
You could see the nail marks on my bicep

Somehow her distrust - would find a reprieve
Ali was attempting to reclaim the crown

I kissed her goodbye - And, went off with this stranger
Who was advised to give me no soda

The bout was in New York - At Madison Square Garden
Remember this predates HBO

So we went to the Met - To watch the closed circut broadcast
It was our cities only satellite venue

Tickets were sparse - Admission was coveted
I ran to be the first in a line

We marched straight to consessions - My father grinned large
"Sir, wouls you please give my son a Coke?"

Then we entered the auditorium - There were 1 million men
And, I was the only boy

The guys with gray hair - The type who wore pin stripes
Greeted me like neighbors from the cabin

"Who do you like kid?" - I answered Muhammad Ali"
To the applause of row 117

But, even in Nirvana - theres always one flaw
Ours sported a plaid coat and sat in the row just behind

He bragged that Joe Fraizer - was 26 and 0
And, 23 of these came via the knockout

The imcumbant from Philly - Wasn't a draft dodger
Like my dads hero who was barred durring his prime

When the man in the plaid coat - harped on this fact
My old man told him to shut the fuck up

For the briefest of moments - I waited for conflict
But, the oafs were both told to pipe down

I sat there in silence - Kinda digging the tension
The show was about to start

The screen was gigantic - Bigger than in the movies
Then along came another Coke

When the lights faded down - The cheers rang out loud
While I nesteled into a cloud of blue cigar smoke

Don Dumphy did commentary - He was the play by play announcer
And, was joined by boxing champion Archie Moore

Burt Lancaster did color - He had never tried announcing
I loved the Birdman from Alcatraz

Leroy Neiman painted the moment - Woody Allen was himself
While Sinatra took photos for LIFE magizine

But, thats how it worked - You did what was needed
If you wanted to witness history first hand

The fight exceeded expectations - It went the full distance
But, Muhammad got knocked down in the final round

The world went silent - And, I wanted to cry
For a hero I didn't know earlier that day

He popped up real quick though - to offer us hope
But, his jaw was swollen grotesquely

After the bell rang - Smoking Joes glove was raised
Ali had suffered his first loss

Besides a small fraction - the crowd seemed so sullen
But, my old man refused to abandon his smile

While everyone filed out - We stayed in our seats
For unknown reasons he didn't want to leave

And, before he stood up - He shared a confession
As if we both possesed identical understanding

"Listen to me kid - One day you're gonna get older
And, I'm guessing you might be upset

You'll probably figure out - I'm a pretty shitty father
But, if it's any consolation...................

I only had 2 tickets to the fight of the century - And, I wanted to take you."

Ink -- by Kim Ode

When Johnny Cash died

They published memorials,

Ragged columns of ink

Reprising his life.

Kids still pick at his songs

Caressing frets with their fingers

While squinting at chords –

Ball-point dots of his strife.

Ink flows from pens.

Ink flows from needles.

Ink asks if we’re certain

Then winks when we nod.

Monks labored in abbeys

Illuminating the Word.

Shakespeare’s quill dipped and scratched

Soliliquies for the crowd.

Treaties and grocery lists,

Lyrics and lies.

Ink’s fluid nature

Both confirms and denies.

Tattoos are stories

Absorbed by our pores.

Injections of chapters

On biceps and calves.

Epiphanies, tributes,

Drunken stabs at eternity –

Ink walks the line

Lending all a blue beauty.

Silently, surely

The hand-drawn script letters

Deliver a message

As honest as dogs.

Ink flows from pens.

Ink flows from needles.

Ink asks if we’re certain

Then winks when we nod.

Polish Mystic Saint of Bread and Dogs by Tracie Morrell

Polish Mystic Saint of Bread and Dogs

Her last taste of broken

bread was in the Pradnik Sanatorium

Chapel.  That day was long

before they called her Saint. As Sister Mary Faustina

of the Blessed Sacrament coughed, the bread

speckled red with traces of consumption.

The day of her arrival was when the dogs

began to congregate.  In the chapel, kitchen

hands laid the bread of Christ, this time made

with gouda and stout, on a make-shift alter made of saw

horses and a broken mahogany door covered

with woven gold threads.  First, there was

an Owczarek Podhalanski, it was a very dirty

animal, but it could translate prayers.  Shortly, more

came, sometimes, by the dozens, and all different

breeds.  The Hounds of Hell came much later,

after there were already hundreds

there to hear a dying nun’s visions.

It was the arrival of beasts that told the men,

who owned the word, that she had been

touched.  Those men did not know that truth

never has the same meaning, especially when told

with lies.  But the day of speckled

bread, the dogs knelt before a Nun

carried to alter by Christ himself, as all the men

watched in horror.

 

i

 

3 Kings - Klecko

I hate when priests think that they're cool
Making reference of the Biblical Magi
They are the 3 Kings
As if you needed to be told
But, I guess sometimes perfections not enough

If you are a young boy
There is no image greater
To emulate through the holiday season

Before there were action figures
I'd extract the 3 kings from my mothers Nativity
And, we'd search for baby Jesus in distant kitchen cupboards

I didn't have any gold
Frankincense or myrrh
Our expedition outsourced wintergreen Lifesavers

And, if you explored the terrain deep into a closet
And, hit those mints with a hammer
The sparks looked like angels flying back to their father

My sister would get pissed
When I recruited Uncle Drosselmeyer
Who was carved into a Nutcracker form

He was an employee of King Herod
Hired to reenact The Massacre of the Innocents
In which her Barbie's starred as Bethlehem's slain

My sister would point out
That I was retarded
Since historically the victims had been boys

But, artistic license
Or a directors prerogative
Should always receive extended latitude when you are 6

A kitchen eulogy -- by Kim Ode

After all the calls were made --

"It was so sudden..." "She went quickly..."

After all the details were settled --

"The navy dress with her pearl broach..." "Rock of Ages..."

After the funeral had lent its comfort --

"Pastor was good today..." "They're together now..."

Everyone came back to her house

As everyone always had.

So it didn't seem strange

To be setting out her dishes,

And using her hot pads to pull

The neighbors' casseroles from the oven.

It wasn't until they were packing up the leftovers

That it struck them that no one lived here anymore,

That it was no use putting food in the fridge.

And that was when they found the cookie dough.

She'd put it there to chill in her pale green Pyrex bowl,

Dough the color of pale caramel,

Although one taste told them it was for peanut butter cookies,

The kind she criss-crossed with a fork.

She'd been known for her cookies,

Not so much for their particular quality

(Betty Crocker made everyone a good baker)

But for their constancy and quantity.

The women looked at each other,

Knowing that she'd never want good ingredients

To go to waste.

(She'd always used Land 'O Lakes butter.)

And so they set the oven to 350

And pulled out her cookie sheets

And rolled the dough into inch-wide balls

And criss-crossed them with a fork

And baked them until they were just firm

And cooled them on her wire rack.

And then they cried, cried as if they'd never cried before.

They cried as they washed the cookie sheets,

Cried as they dried the Pyrex bowl and asked which daughter wanted it,

Cried as they ate every single one of those cookies,

Then brushed the crumbs from their good dresses

And returned to their own homes,

And began baking in blessed grief.

West 7th Street - by Klecko

The snow plows have stopped running
While a gypsy - tins my bowl
The perverts at the Denmark hide
Because the preacher wants their soul

Children go on milk cartons
When parents ignore their debt
The old world must remember
Because the new school will forget

You can smile - or maybe laugh
But, buckle tight - into your seat
The Prodigals Son - just can't have fun
When he returns to West 7th street

Bathsheba's sitting in the driveway
With a hand gun in her purse
I asked why she was packing
You weren'y sure what was worse

Sleeping without Billy
Or sleeping in a hearse
The prophets didn't seem to want to try
Because you'd just rebuked their curse

For those who despise this infidel
They better just stare at her feet
Because the spirits strong - but the flesh is weak
When you partake on West 7th street

Cassius ran a supper club
Linen napkins and paper plates
At 2 O'clock - was his bank drop
He observed some criminals traits

4 Hmong boys - who fled abrupt
Holding canvas bags and guns
Everybody hit the deck
But, Cassius refused to run

Instead he followed in a Buick
Until they were detained - by the Heat
Our hero wouldn't touch his just reward
They passed it out on West 7th street

Mr. Twist was of British lineage
And, often ate things off the floor
An orphan who left us uncertain
If he was eccentric - or just poor

He was crucified by phobias
We watched while his neurosis grew
He was unable to void - while at the shop
Or share a toilet with the crew

When the last dough came off the mixer
We placed a spike right through his feet
He and 2 theives made quite a mess
So watch your step on West 7th street

Pocahontas was a pole dancer
Who just quit Deja Vu
She gave up lap dances for pastry training
And, took her breaks in my Malibu

Each night we'd smoke 2 cigarettes
A cracked windshield framed the stars
Her body was more than picture perfect
But, her confidence bore weighty scars

Then on tuesday - my night off
She disrobed - out on the concrete
Where she gave every employee a special good bye
Before she danced down West 7th street

Antoinette - was a buxom vet
We entered through the back
To plan another recognizance
It was her nature to attack

She hung maps displaying tortured dogs
And, we'd emancipate them between loads of bread
Within moments they were off the radar
Their owners assumed they were dead

So question our methods - if you like
And label us a cheat
But we were just taking orders
From the good Doc on West 7th street

Frost is on the window pane
while it bites deep into your toes
Rabbits - searching for their holes
Maybe half the warren froze

Icicles, boogars, boots and strep
Two called in with the flu
It's going to be one of those nights
If we don't die before we are through

Thirteen hours before sunrise
So lets absorb the ovens heat
Sometimes we take things by the minute
On West 7th street

Kamal hopped on the 74 B
Much to my surprise
He decided to sit behind me
There was strange peace in his eyes

I fired him for being slow
And called him a Turban Head
Then told him to fly out on his fucking rug
Or else he's wish that he was dead

When I got up - to leave the bus
He was full while I was incomplete
Because ignorance shrouded with mercy
were foreign on west 7th street

Santa and Othello
They didn't know what to do
the shelter had to lock the doors
Before their rye was through

They wrapped themselves with plastic
So when they slept - they wouldn't get wet
I offered them a flour bag mattress
Behind a pastry cabinet

That's when Othello began to grin
Exclaiming - My stars that can't be beat
Junior thinks we'd sleep in this dump
When we could bed down on West 7th street

1000 ghosts - they've all shared time
Lined up in this commercial space
Often times I can hear their voice
But, I can't make out their face

They might be recanting their promises
And, some opinions too
But, the one thing they hold in agreement
Is its all over - when I'm through

And, even though the outcome is flawed
The process was a treat
It's just to bad that the marvel must fade
When I step off of West 7th street

Vampire Baker - by Klecko

The bakery's old
The hallways cold
Condensation causing mold

On the baseboards
On the wall
Clock strikes midnight
The ovens call

I'm going to fly tonight
Going to fly tonight

Rule the world
While you sleep
So pray to God, your soul to keep

Bones are cold
Eyes are old
Seeing stories never told

At your tables
In your Malls
Clock strike midnight
Duty calls

I'm going to fly tonight
Going to fly tonight

The Peoples Empire - by Klecko

The shark defines an aquatic cage
Th perimeters always wide
We raise a toast - and shed an oath
And, get pulled in by the tide

You can lie down on the ocean floor
But, you can never hide
The truth is always seen in the peoples empire

The artesian will earn his keep
From sweat upon the brow
Everything's obtainable
When someone shows you how

And, every shift is tangible
From the oven to the plow
Your collars always blue
In the peoples empire

Grab the pot - and pour me coffee
Save room for some cream
It doesn't matter that I'm thirsty
when I watch your brown eyes gleam

I salute the architect of your temple
For creating such a dream
Enshrine this angel
In the peoples empire

Take my wallet - and my car keys
Crawl into my bed
Its seldom that I get to use them
I'm usually baking bread

And, I'm sure I'll give you many reasons
To leave me before I'm dead
Its hard to hold a bond
in the peoples empire

Judas usually held the purse strings
So the crew was in the black
After a merger with Pharisees
He tried to give it back

Sometimes in Hospitality
One day can break your back
There are no second chances
In the people empire

The police cruise the alleyways
Of kitchens and retail
If you are Black, Hmong or Mexican
Get ready to post bail

If you don't have money for representation
An appointed attorney will fail
Don't dare to hope for justice
In the people empire

The waitress - who is a mother
Usually won't play fair
She'll dig in deep - for this months lover
And typically won't care

If he's trite, obscene, or slow to act
Or even losing hair
As long as that check clears
In the peoples empire

The inspector arrives unannounced
In hopes of striking fear
you can bet that they - will stay all day
It keeps their job secure

Some want to see that monkey dance
And others just want beer
You see - everyone's your overlord
In the people Empire

In the break room - the Italian baker
Was accused of being gay
Because he spent his Tuesday lunch hour
Reading Hemmingway

Owning books, values, or dreams
Will get you pushed away
Finish lines are never crossed
In the peoples empire

In the Midwest - there are wheat fields
As big as any sea
All my clients have driven through them
When they crossed - our country

It's a voyage - I have never taken
I've been chained to industry
Yes - I want to believe that the sun shines bright
On the people empire.

End

Solstice by Susan Koefod

http://www.tattoohighway.org/18/sksolstice.html

Just Once -- by Kim Ode

Just returned from visiting my folks in South Dakota, which recalled this moment, many years ago, when  it was good to be a farmer..........

Just Once

We’re millionaires, my father said,

Then qualified his pride:

On paper,

This year,

Because it rained.

Still -- millionaires.

He couldn’t say it without smiling,

Disbelieving what he’d done.

We kids wanted it to rain coins

Like in Scrooge McDuck cartoons.

But the proof was in bank ledgers

This year

Because corn futures were good.

And so even with his second

C.C.-and-7

Slaking his dirt-parched throat,

The truth of who owned his victory

Crept into his eyes.

Still, we clung to the moment, imagining

New Barbies

Or Disneyland.

“On paper” was for grownups.

I wanted the Dream House

And all the breaded shrimp I could eat.

Later that night, Mom’s quiet pride

Must have kissed away our quest for proof

Because the subject never came up again.

Still -- millionaires.

Just once,

On paper,

This year,

Because it rained. 

A Day at the Coliseum (an Easter Poem by Klecko)

In another lifetime - or maybe just a dream
I was frying mini doughnuts - at the Roman Coliseum
They were purchased by the Tribune - And, the Emperor too
But, when I sold out early - I didn't know what to do
I untied my dirty apron -And, tossed it on the ground
And, followed hot Phoenician chicks - while they walked around

Rose pedals fell from the sky - And landed in the street
Where a line of chariots rolled on by - for the audience to greet
Pilate proclaimed it time to start - until his lover cried
The race must be aborted - since the Corinthian driver died
Tiberius hiked up his toga - and formed a smirking grin
Somebody bring the baker - we'll make his ass fill in

The centurions pointed to my ride - And, said hop in if you will
And, when I asked what if I don't - they pointed to a hill
A billboard proclaimed Golgotha - the mountain made of skull
Its the worst place to get crucified - because their spikes are dull
I didn't like my options - I was being played by fate
So I finished my second Diet Coke - And, stepped into the gate

To my right were noble whites - you could listen to them purr
They belonged to some crazy Shiek - and a Prince who we called Hur
To my left stood Massalah - and his majestic blacks
He was a five time winner - and familiar with this track
Some have said the steeds rich color - held significanace
But, that was soon forgotten - when I looked up at the fence

Four Jackasses tethered - were staring back at me
Betty Crocker, General Mills, Doughboy and Sarah Lee
A motley crew for certain - but, we were still a team
Before I calculated odds - I heard the trumpets scream
Massalah sent praise to Jupiter - who granted all his whims
Which made me wonder hard and fast - why those razors on his rims

Nine times around the Circus - is what it takes to win
So no time like the present - I peeled out and took a spin
The rig from Macedonia - tried to vanquish me
But when I moved into 3rd place - his horses stopped to pee
Massalah and the Prince - saw me in their rear view mirror
And, as I closed the gap - they looked back and missed a gear

The 2 of them collided - and the Tribune hit the dirt
You shouldn't go commando - when your uniforms a skirt
His legs were amputated - they were trampled under hoof
If there would have been a ceiling - we would have raised the roof
The Physicians tried to save him - But, he was to far gone
And, just before he passed away - he warned the the race will still wage on

My donkeys were dark horses - yet we occupied 2nd place
We got so close to Judah - that I could see his face
He whispered that a man he didn't know - served him and he wondered why
Perhaps I am mistaken - But, I thought I saw him cry
As we turned the final corner - I finally took the lead
This pacified the savage mob - who were cheering out of greed

In a final stretch an image appeared - it was divine
And, told me to take heed - if I crossed the finish line
I began to shake and tremble - pulled my donkeys in reverse
After the Hebrew won - he claimed the laurel and the purse
Caesar checked him out - because the Jew was cute and trim
Then he proceeded to advise the crowd - that they should worship him

As the day proceeded - I became upset
I knew I really won the race - But, yet I lost my bet
I was glad the Hebrew Nation - had a reason to believe
But, what about us Pollacks - we always have to grieve
That's when Jesus appeared to me - in a slice of toast
And, promised to give me victory - so Impressive I could boast

In another lifetime - or maybe just a dream
I threw a tiny pebble - at a big old Philistine

Minnesotan in New York - by Mike Finley

When I landed at LaGuardia
It was seventy degrees.
All I needed was a thin jacket.
For three days I walked the streets
Leery of beggars who seemed
to know something, and shadowy.
Figures lurking in doorways.
But when the temperature began
to fall and the canyon gusts blew
plastic sacks like ghostly luggage,
I came into my own.
I am more used to winter than them,
it is my element, walking into wind
swinging my computer case at my side.
All along 6th Avenue phalanxes of muggers
and murders part melted
from their purpose by sled dog eyes.
Urgent and cheerful on a cold,
cold night.

ODE.....this is the poem that Mike sent to me the week before I flew out to NYC to do the Martha Stewart interview. It really meant a lot to me, to have somebody else work become specified for my life. To this day I think Mike Finley is epic.

Under a Canaopy of Stars (Polish Kitchen) by Klecko

Sunday morning - after Mass
Grandma swears - Grandpa Laughs
Relitives - will be here soon
And we'll sit down - for lunch at noon
When we come together we're complete

Carry groceries - from the car
Little Debbies - Nutty Bars
Fresca, Tang - Quisp & Quake
Swanson's dinners - Shake and Bake
All packed neatly in Red Owl bags

Set the table - Then say grace
Pass the food - stuff your face
Aunt Jeanine - gets mad and shouts
Cuz Cousin Jack - hates Brussels sprouts
Everybody has to clean their plate

Broken dishes - stain on shirt
Arguments - before desert
Cup of Sanka - Sara Lee
Cribbage - and Monopoly
Grandpa stops to watch the evening news

And we don't want - the night to end
We don't want - to be apart
The stars come out - to - form - a - canopy
Everyone is comfortable
When they're not alone

Sunday evening - Kitchens closed
Say good bye - time to go
Weddings, funerals, holiday
Is the next time when we'll play
Grandma smiles - waving from the street
Cuz when we come together we're complete

Pastry Chef Lost - by Debora Gilson

Wearing a disposable infant diaper
her cat lies on the bakery office floor staring blankly
He is at once ethereal and macabre

Mary Margaret rolls out the puff pastry across a long floured table

Plastic credit has been used to pay
For blood transfusions, the forced feedings
He is the mate of her soul and she will not see him dead

She says its that time of the month again, the flow heavy, the cramps painful

Customers have complained about the chocolate chip cookies
So, she makes a new batch, the same larded recipe of her grandmother
She tells them that these are made of butter believing they cannot tell the difference

She is the first of four Marys, the sisters to four Josephs

Slowly each cupcake is lifted
the frosting massaged over the top, again and again
She thinks this is the love, but its really the desperation

She moves across the kitchen, La Tortuga, her first steps sluggish and slow

During the long nights in front of the ovens
She drinks the boxed wine purchased to make the soup stock
The freckled Irish morning face has dulled and slackened

She says she's sorry she forgot to take the bread dough out of the cooler last night

The cat dies, the customers do not return in the morning
She lies drunk on the floor
The croissants crushed, the cakes in the pastry case upside down

She is bare, the contents of her stomach on the bathroom floor, left for the angels to clean

The Chef IV - by Debora Gilson

He tells you first thing, that he is a genius
He licks the cake batter from the tips of your fingers
He walks into the kitchen as though he is Louis XIV walking through the Hall of Mirrors
He uses the pastry cooler as a sound proof booth to speak confidentially
He will come for a hug of mutual support before the days battle
He rests a dead chicken foot on your shoulder for laughs
He stands in a stairwell to think about his crazy mother
He says he knows you better than anyone else
He states as a fact that which he wishes were true
He needs you to tell him that you have a plan
He believes in his mind that he is Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront
He smokes pot on his front porch after walking the dog
He carries your summer pudding up five flights of stairs
He kisses your cheek when you have done all that he asks
He lost the truth in his forest of lies
He's afraid of that look in your eye
He cries for you only once
He holds up the pill that keeps him sane
He throws it in his mouth, turns and walks away
He got you into this mess but he will not get you out

Kim....don't you just love this? Sequentially there are a few patters (and breaks in pattern that make this kind of (and I hate using the word) "organic"
Note how the first 17 lines are independent of one another, each could be the heading of its own story, but the last 3 pull together and not only tie together.....but close out the thought.
If you want to know which chef this was written about you'll need to buy me a drink. I would hate to pull a Carly Simon and rat out a brother in public.

Seam Stresses -- by Kim Ode

Somewhere in the mile-long seam

Of a flounce for a teenager’s prom dress

Whose success, at this moment, is in doubt,

I see what I am doing.

See it in that peculiar way in which

The past sometimes appears,

Clicking through scenes on a View-Master

From a cardboard disk I didn’t know I’d saved.

There I am,

Standing in a coldly sleek white gown,

Then in another with too much lace,

And in another that is, well, ick.

Click.

My mother says, I could sew your wedding dress.

I think it was a Simplicity pattern.

Or was it Vogue?

All I know is that she stitched miles of seams

In less than a week.

I sewed on the pearls to accent the bodice

But it was, as usual, a stitch to her every ten.

So here I am, against all logic,

Compelled by the reality of ick,

Volunteering almost word for word

To sew a prom dress for this Saturday.

I’m not sure what I will tell my mother.

Whether to thank her for these skills,

Or ponder how history rewinds itself,

Whether to confess to some competition

Or laugh about the hell we clench in our teeth

And wrestle to the ground

Because of a daughter.

Somewhere in the mile-long seam

That I am snipping open, stitch by stitch

To smooth away a pucker,

I hear a low chuckle

And I know what I will say.