BORDER NOTE

Cook now the ancient way, black

iron kettle on the open fire like my
grandmothers and their mothers did

put in it whatever you find: potato, turnip
rutabaga, carrot, swede. Laugh at the name
when you add the swede, so tough and dry

won’t break for nothing, hard to digest. We boiled
old Kristina when she stopped laying eggs
heat bricks in the fire, stick them under your skirt

your great grandmother was tied to the stockage

for stealing bread to feed her sons. I must give you
the ornate antique silver spoon my mother gave me

on the night before my wedding, the last last thing

here of value, large but supple. You can hang it
inside your shirt, a leather thong around your neck

I found some fallen apples under your birthday tree

but left them on the ground
some knowledge we just can’t live with

how many people have we never met, yet remember? 

Your mother in the food lines after the 2nd war
hearing they had too many holes left in those chimneys

twice now I have dreamt you came in quietly

behind me, following. Starling shadow
what does that mean?

PUBLISHED IN PIRENE’S FOUNTAIN