Visitation, March 17th
I’m at the stove adding
caraway seeds to corned beef
when she arrives, tells me
more onion, and never cook cabbage
in the same juice as potatoes.
I’m not surprised by her sudden appearance
or how she takes over,
ruddy face crinkled in delight,
white hair a wild halo.
She jabs the meat, stirs the broth,
calls me Kathleen mo mhuirnin,
tells how she and Daddy chose my name
sitting close as cats under the willow tree
at Mesa Lane the very day
she found out she was pregnant.
Little splashes of juice shoot out like stars
as she flips the roast, whistles
Irish Washerwoman, grabs my hands
for a jig across the scuffed wooden floor.
Long after the dance, I still hear her whistling,
go back to the bubbling pot,
add carrots, turn around to find
she has vanished again.
Ode to the Oreo
O, Oreo, noble cookie!
Whether you’re eaten day or night
For breakfast, lunch or snacking bite
Or pulled apart to scrape with teeth
Your inner icing, white and sweet
Your chocolate wafers saved for last
Nibbled slowly or gobbled fast
Whether consuming three or four
Or binging on a dozen or more
With cocoa, coffee, milk ice cold
Your roundness a delight to hold--
You, Oreo, are most divine
When dunked and soggy, you are mine!
Kate Aver Avraham loves words whether she is writing them, editing them or reading them. She has been published numerous times, including her recent book of poems, Arms of My Longing from Blue Light Press. She lives in Aptos, Ca. at the glorious edge of the redwood forest.
I’m at the stove adding
caraway seeds to corned beef
when she arrives, tells me
more onion, and never cook cabbage
in the same juice as potatoes.
I’m not surprised by her sudden appearance
or how she takes over,
ruddy face crinkled in delight,
white hair a wild halo.
She jabs the meat, stirs the broth,
calls me Kathleen mo mhuirnin,
tells how she and Daddy chose my name
sitting close as cats under the willow tree
at Mesa Lane the very day
she found out she was pregnant.
Little splashes of juice shoot out like stars
as she flips the roast, whistles
Irish Washerwoman, grabs my hands
for a jig across the scuffed wooden floor.
Long after the dance, I still hear her whistling,
go back to the bubbling pot,
add carrots, turn around to find
she has vanished again.
Ode to the Oreo
O, Oreo, noble cookie!
Whether you’re eaten day or night
For breakfast, lunch or snacking bite
Or pulled apart to scrape with teeth
Your inner icing, white and sweet
Your chocolate wafers saved for last
Nibbled slowly or gobbled fast
Whether consuming three or four
Or binging on a dozen or more
With cocoa, coffee, milk ice cold
Your roundness a delight to hold--
You, Oreo, are most divine
When dunked and soggy, you are mine!
Kate Aver Avraham loves words whether she is writing them, editing them or reading them. She has been published numerous times, including her recent book of poems, Arms of My Longing from Blue Light Press. She lives in Aptos, Ca. at the glorious edge of the redwood forest.