For Now

What do I wish? For now, enough time
to see the long grass bending under day-
long rain and decide it is time to go

into the kitchen where I can knead
something with my hands: flour and some
water; salt, oil, a handful of rosemary—

Enough time put the kettle on to boil,
to plant one dried tooth of anise
in the stew to help me remember

to dream; to lay one extra plate
for the one who isn’t here.
And even then night falls,

day slips away, restless as this
body craving respite: languid
thoughts, elusive sleep.

 

In response to Morning Porch and small stone (91).

1 Comment


  1. To leave an extra plate for one not there:
    Mother perfected that ritual when he left.
    There was no returning, but what of it?
    He will be here at sundown. Your father
    Is always prompt. The raw dinakdakan
    Will spoil if he did not come on time.
    She waited, but it took so long. She slept.
    Wrapped in her flannel blanket, she knew
    She’d have enough warmth for both of them.

    A.B. Casuga
    05-17-12

    Reply

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