Alphabet & Duck Soup

A dogfood fattened
White duck
Waddled into the Summer
I was a tall, skinny 11 or 12
With its interesting
Used-to-be owner boy
Who saw past my thick glasses
Visited occasionally
Checking on the duck
And me?

Duck went to Busha's soup
That sent us hunting
Her fields and woods
Quacking
To no avail
Crying
To no avail

Boy fell in the Alphabet soup
Of boys I sipped
And cried over their spilling
To no avail
On the splintered table
Of Life

Crooked in the Bed

We lay crooked in the bed
Our bodies draped in and around
And over each other
Forming V’s and Y’s
With arms and legs
Accommodating 3 cats
who lay in U’s and O’s
between legs and feet
Purrrring their contentment
While we carefully
Lift legs around them
To find a leftover
Spot to sleep.

Country Cemetary

In a country cemetary on Erie Rd. down the street from where we grew up, our ancestors lie in sun-dappled shade. The headstones are clearly visible, graves are cleaned and well-kept. Familiar family names cut in stone herald our Polish heritage. As we wander through this peaceful little place, we wonder at their hardships, or their heartaches, their stories untold. The inscriptions and dates speak of a long lineage of a hearty people. Our people. No matter their stories, their blood flows through our veins. Our hearts quicken with the knowledge that although names change, time and distance separate us, we are still connected, and stronger because of it.

Country Girl

Aunt Elsie’s Cows

Green field curtains
With black and white
Jerseys grazing
Framing the windows
Reminding Aunt Elsie
Of her Michigan home.
Those gentle, big-eyed
Calves that sucked
Your thumb and gazed
Through those long black fringes
While kittens rubbed
Figure eights between
Your legs in the
Sweet smelling,
Breath-warm
Barn on the hill.