Buttered Toast
He would cut off a bite of his breakfast toast,
well buttered, and then rocking the edge
of the prongs of his silver fork
pry off part of his fried egg,
over ever so light as to harden the white,
would sop up some of the runny sunshine-golden yolk
to put on top of this bite of toast, just so,
to become the solid base
then slide that fork’s long prongs
into a mound of white grits,
spreckled lightly with pepper and salt,
butter melting into rivulets of pale froth,
to slather on top of the egg on top of the toast
and last, with two fingers, he’d delicately break off
an inch of crisp crunchy bacon
to balance on top and would offer this treasured
heap of a bite to me, a child, impatient,
standing by his side in our dining room,
and 70 years later my brother is describing
that same bite, the grits, the fried egg just so,
the melting butter, the bacon –
the brother who wasn’t speaking
with our father that last year but has since
somehow made his peace, remembering the gift
of a father who shared.
A Painter's Be Safe
From our crammed full
refrigerator, everything stacked and tilted
and jammed, the plastic clamshell
of blueberries has fallen
and berries skitter about
as we talk with my son
on the phone about Thanksgiving,
that his sons will be back from college
and quarantined and we are high risk.
We bend down to pick up
the contaminated fruit into a separate bowl
and later my husband tells me yet again, yes,
he washed and ate them because,
of course, his German mother
as a child, starving after
World War I, had dug potatoes
in farmers’ fields to eat.
This morning I notice the empty plastic clamshell
and that he’s eaten every remaining berry,
even the ones that hadn’t hit the floor
and I wonder it never occurred to him
that I might like to eat
one of those berries
not just have the joy of his eating
them all, the joy that he’s strong
with infusions every 2 weeks
that keep his cancer cells at bay,
and I fret I would starve to death
if I were to get Covid, quarantined in my room
and he my lifeline to food
as he reads aloud
the latest death toll and Fauci's
optimism for a vaccine and I put
on the Tao of Cello
– sonorous comfort
of low cello strings – and
find my brushes to paint.
What He Remembers Is
We laugh when we feel the thinly sliced carpaccio
burst cool flavors onto our tongues
and the mix of arugula in garlicky, creamy dressing.
He says, no, no, this is enough
and I say I'm paying,
have another glass of this musky merlot
(the maitre d', sexy blond hair
and her skin darkly tanned sets off
the gleam of gold bracelets
and her black tube skirt barely reaches the tops
of her perfectly slim legs
down to the Ferragamo flats.
She smiles, when I take her aside, to know it is his birthday.
Yes, she will gather all the waiters and
she and I agree he'll have the tiramisu
and she'll stick a candle in it) and so I watch
as he bites into his grilled salmon,
is nourished by the red Spring potatoes
seasoned just so with dark marjoram flakes.
I watch as he beams when his favorite
waiters – burly guys who joke
about the Knicks and the thin girl
who looks like an adolescent Grace Kelly
waiting on tables in men's shoes --
all sing HAPPY BIRTHDAY
and he blows the candle out fast with a wish
but he doesn't tell me what.
But the tiramisu has turned a tad sour
and I want for once my own hot fudge sundae,
as when we share he often forgets and eats too fast
so I can't let it melt into that half soup
I love and I am paying, so what,
so I order the fudge. He says he is stuffed
and takes only one bite.
I sign for the bill and the glow is immense.
And, yes, the next day when I ask, his eyes move to the side
and he admits he is sad...
...I haven't given him a card.
Meg Lindsay, with an MFA in poetry from Sarah Lawrence, has also painted for decades with works juried into museum exhibitions, such as the Hudson River Museum and Silvermine.
A semi-finalist in two "Discovery"/The Nation Contests and a finalist in the 1998 Inkwell competition, she has published poetry in Pivot, Salamander, Alimentum, Intima, Tricycle, Pulse, and the Connecticut River Review, etc.
Her second chapbook, Notes from a Caregiver, was published in 2020 by Poetry Box and her 1st book, A Painter’s Night Journal, published in 2016 by Finishing Line Press, deals with the emotions of her painting over many decades. Both available on Amazon.
Her website for paintings and some related poems is www.meglindsayartist.com.
He would cut off a bite of his breakfast toast,
well buttered, and then rocking the edge
of the prongs of his silver fork
pry off part of his fried egg,
over ever so light as to harden the white,
would sop up some of the runny sunshine-golden yolk
to put on top of this bite of toast, just so,
to become the solid base
then slide that fork’s long prongs
into a mound of white grits,
spreckled lightly with pepper and salt,
butter melting into rivulets of pale froth,
to slather on top of the egg on top of the toast
and last, with two fingers, he’d delicately break off
an inch of crisp crunchy bacon
to balance on top and would offer this treasured
heap of a bite to me, a child, impatient,
standing by his side in our dining room,
and 70 years later my brother is describing
that same bite, the grits, the fried egg just so,
the melting butter, the bacon –
the brother who wasn’t speaking
with our father that last year but has since
somehow made his peace, remembering the gift
of a father who shared.
A Painter's Be Safe
From our crammed full
refrigerator, everything stacked and tilted
and jammed, the plastic clamshell
of blueberries has fallen
and berries skitter about
as we talk with my son
on the phone about Thanksgiving,
that his sons will be back from college
and quarantined and we are high risk.
We bend down to pick up
the contaminated fruit into a separate bowl
and later my husband tells me yet again, yes,
he washed and ate them because,
of course, his German mother
as a child, starving after
World War I, had dug potatoes
in farmers’ fields to eat.
This morning I notice the empty plastic clamshell
and that he’s eaten every remaining berry,
even the ones that hadn’t hit the floor
and I wonder it never occurred to him
that I might like to eat
one of those berries
not just have the joy of his eating
them all, the joy that he’s strong
with infusions every 2 weeks
that keep his cancer cells at bay,
and I fret I would starve to death
if I were to get Covid, quarantined in my room
and he my lifeline to food
as he reads aloud
the latest death toll and Fauci's
optimism for a vaccine and I put
on the Tao of Cello
– sonorous comfort
of low cello strings – and
find my brushes to paint.
What He Remembers Is
We laugh when we feel the thinly sliced carpaccio
burst cool flavors onto our tongues
and the mix of arugula in garlicky, creamy dressing.
He says, no, no, this is enough
and I say I'm paying,
have another glass of this musky merlot
(the maitre d', sexy blond hair
and her skin darkly tanned sets off
the gleam of gold bracelets
and her black tube skirt barely reaches the tops
of her perfectly slim legs
down to the Ferragamo flats.
She smiles, when I take her aside, to know it is his birthday.
Yes, she will gather all the waiters and
she and I agree he'll have the tiramisu
and she'll stick a candle in it) and so I watch
as he bites into his grilled salmon,
is nourished by the red Spring potatoes
seasoned just so with dark marjoram flakes.
I watch as he beams when his favorite
waiters – burly guys who joke
about the Knicks and the thin girl
who looks like an adolescent Grace Kelly
waiting on tables in men's shoes --
all sing HAPPY BIRTHDAY
and he blows the candle out fast with a wish
but he doesn't tell me what.
But the tiramisu has turned a tad sour
and I want for once my own hot fudge sundae,
as when we share he often forgets and eats too fast
so I can't let it melt into that half soup
I love and I am paying, so what,
so I order the fudge. He says he is stuffed
and takes only one bite.
I sign for the bill and the glow is immense.
And, yes, the next day when I ask, his eyes move to the side
and he admits he is sad...
...I haven't given him a card.
Meg Lindsay, with an MFA in poetry from Sarah Lawrence, has also painted for decades with works juried into museum exhibitions, such as the Hudson River Museum and Silvermine.
A semi-finalist in two "Discovery"/The Nation Contests and a finalist in the 1998 Inkwell competition, she has published poetry in Pivot, Salamander, Alimentum, Intima, Tricycle, Pulse, and the Connecticut River Review, etc.
Her second chapbook, Notes from a Caregiver, was published in 2020 by Poetry Box and her 1st book, A Painter’s Night Journal, published in 2016 by Finishing Line Press, deals with the emotions of her painting over many decades. Both available on Amazon.
Her website for paintings and some related poems is www.meglindsayartist.com.
