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  • Baby at the Table

    Michele Herman

    Most years the Brooklyn cousins host us all / and we bring three homemade pies by way of thanks, ...

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    Baby at the Table

    Most years the Brooklyn cousins host us all
    and we bring three homemade pies by way of thanks,
    till Covid came and spread its lengthy pall.
    How good to be back here among their ranks.

    I greet the Washington and Boston crews,
    the twins I try so hard to tell apart,
    the widower who can’t cast off his blues,
    all dear – though nearly strangers – to my heart.

    I make my way to the kitchen in the back
    amid the bustle and the dishes in the sink.
    I roll my sleeves and fill the drying rack
    then sneak out for some hummus and a drink

    while a glaze of tamarind goes on the bird
    and the vegans braise the “celebration roast.”
    We all agree that life has been absurd.
    Then we gather at the table for a toast.

    This year they had to scrounge up twenty chairs --
    the clan’s expanding faster than it dies.
    We meet the latest, sweetest of the heirs:
    Ari, a Chinese, Jewish and Croatian guy.

    We figure out the somewhat distant ties:
    he’s our grown sons’ third cousin once removed.
    We spend the evening making goo-goo eyes.
    How can a family gathering be improved?

    If you trace Thanksgiving to its roots
    it’s true you can’t avoid the genocide,
    but we are not those sanctimonious brutes;
    our Brooklyn cousins open their arms wide.

  • Ode to Gum

    Riley Natalova

    The fleeting youth gathers to watch / As their life dwindles / reminiscence of sweet sickly perfume...

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    ode to gum

    The fleeting youth gathers to watch
    As their life dwindles
    reminiscence of sweet sickly perfume
    Blankets the suffocating air
    They watch their life dwindle
    Except it doesn’t
    It merely melds

    Into a wad of gum
    Sticky gooey pink gum
    Or icy mint blue or pale citrus orange
    Will soon be just another black spot
    On the city pavement

    Through bustling streets
    Shiny black boots stomp by
    While red leather sandals skip with glee
    Gray muddy converse trips and falls
    They once were white, but who could remember

    The chewed and forgotten patiently waiting
    For a crevice to hold
    Twisting and morphing in order to fit
    Consuming the ridges of worn rubber sole

    But it won’t let go, stretching endlessly pulling her back
    Pulling her to the only home it’s known for so long
    Let me share this with you! Isn’t it Lovely!
    But she only stares back with a furrowed brow
    Grimacing at her findings

    She frantically rubs her feet on the gravel
    Scrubbing while muttering unholy words
    “Today isn’t the day for this, fuck my life”
    Fuck your life? What about mine?
    Defeated and warped it could only stare back

    As she strutted away, riffling in her back pocket
    She pulled out a silver wrapper and took a deep breath
    opening her mouth real wide
    Popping in a brand-new piece
    of sticky gooey pink gum

Homage

Homage

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