Forging (Frank Messa)

 Donna Michele Hill

steak and kidney pie
thirst quenched and jovial
a new light
cast the circle and call it a day
enough to be
elegy for the rain
mist

About Donna

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© Donna Michele Hill and Tossed Salad, 2002.
Published: 10.12.02

 

 

 

 

 













steak and kidney pie

I put the pot away today
the one lazily waiting for days to be tucked
down where it belongs
cleaned, but still with a dark ring of usage
seasoned stain, to about the half way point

smooth black flecks
throughout the heavy aluminium pot, lone survivor
to someone's set I found who knows when
among a second-hand store's cluttered shelves
the pot that reminds me of my grandmother's set
she used to cook up her turkey feasts

or French Canadian dishes like her specialty
steak and kidney pie
the set my mom now has, for a second generation
of down home cooking
those same culinary treasures I pass on to my sons,
my wrists barely able to lift and tilt
drain off the excess water from boiled potatoes
or pasta, the pot that cooks my chili to perfection, simmers
stroganoff with its tender strips of beef, sautéed mushrooms and onions

and today for whatever reason, I put the pot away
after it's sat on the stove for a time, the way
a pot of comforting
chicken soup might be kept warm
on a back burner

the way you've left my love to simmer, then
cool from your life
but slowly I've taken that too, put it away
readied myself for another's front burner









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thirst quenched and jovial

I wonder to myself, is it the jagged sound of the words,
or the meaning behind them?
perhaps it's a mother, the end to a very long day
speaking down to her children; words that cut
through more than air, or sibling to sibling, when one
is a jock, calling the other a faggot.

I cringe to consider a man's
mid-life crisis- his search for the perfect bride
that specific beauty, half his age.
both are smitten, he
adored for his youthful outlook, she
for her innocence, veiled desires
to move beyond cultural constraints
break through confines of being a Vietnamese
working girl

a descriptive role
one of mingling throughout the establishment,
keeping the men thirst quenched and jovial,
young women who fulfill their feminine duties-
known to the locals, as social lubricants.

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a new light

she had always been open to the idea of readings
perhaps to be understood through tealeaves
but tonight, she'd hold out her palms
for the old woman to choose
the more revealing of the two

insights that followed
were not a surprise for Madisen
though presented in a new light-

the strikingly short, enjambled
lines
beneath her right index finger
demonstrating a painful, fragmented childhood
certainly these could explain
the drinking, and divorce
loss of a brother
laughter and jeers
about her shakiness

all leading to the next crease a strong
headspace of intellect; an abrupt decision
to make that transition, the woman speculated
as Madisen nodded, well aware of her own cerebral
retreats for survival

and this line, tracing
its way down to her wrist one of clarity
and precision, so lengthy

you are robust and healthy, destined
to live a long life well into your nineties,
she was pleased to confirm

soon Madisen was hearing only herself
oh shit she murmured that long?-

and she was a child once more.

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cast the circle and call it a day

forty minutes of solitude is about the limit
so long as carefree weather holds
out for a daily walk with the dog.
seems shedding a few extra pounds
that no one else notices, brings out the cat calls.
yeah, move it babe! children
with a license, behind the wheel, I smile.
three-quarters way around
a country-length block, we sit for
a rest, Bamboo cryptically scribed across the bus stop bench
in black felt. in the heat, my dog pants, offers a happy kiss
as I soak in the traffic, tune into facial expressions,
and muse. up again, homeward
too many bills and a mortgage, two jobs
making a go of it, teens to be fed and cared for,
cast the circle and call it a day.
one of those, where light refuses to shed
its skin fast enough, and call for respite.
instead, hangs limply
over the spindled back of a chair
like a dancer after last set.
another night filled with dreams
untouched, between bed sheets glazed in tears
that sit like feathers, sweeping just beneath the skin.

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enough to be

a bag of fries heats my hands
as I juggle with a cool can of coke
and money for the clerk
while our eyes and ears remain
devoted to the elderly man
next to me and the clerk asks
how things are going. not bad
he says, good days and bad
and I can tell right away
it's the chemo
that's left his skin elegantly smooth
along the back of his neck curving
upward under his faded ball
cap.

I think of my friend
who's recently gone through
the same routine
her hair an inch or so of growth back now
before this her body undoubtedly baby smooth
brimming with poisons never mind the cancer that
carried her to the brink
I suddenly realized while sitting
on her couch looking
into tear-stained eyes a pale figurine
of starkness under a blue cotton kerchief
then sighed in relief when a few week's
lock down and suicide watch in a Step-house
did all I couldn't possibly
until the body healed from such
invasions.

as I juggle junk food and change
and my mind churns with fear and comfort
what words could possibly fold off the tongue
to softly say
I know
or think I might
enough to be a stranger beside this man
whom he can at least smile to
on one of his good days.

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elegy for the rain

rain falls like plump corn
popping outside my window
there is no pattern to these pelting
tendrils of dampness and cold
I stray far from the excessive gene
to drink, though depression rears
itself at the least possible
configuration
I long for the pitter-patter
rhythm to take hold

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mist

I have cried for them, shaken
in horror for them;

for those who sailed on winged missiles
those in heavier flight between
window sill and ashen pavement below

for those who cascaded within
caught in unison to perversed, distorting metal
purified rubble.

though on this day, I am mute;
bowed from any tributes-
absent of leisure; an act of betrayal?

exhaustion perhaps, and prudent wonder
for the women, the chosen few
having been elevated to celebrity status.

have others not gone before
and after?
silently, oh so violently,
lesser gods; as orphans, widows,
single mothers

from Khandahar to North America
to Argentina
there are no troubadours singing our
praises, no ballads being written
of our continued courage.

as for my own small part
on this day, their day of remembrance
I can only struggle with,
and on my own

accomplish all that is unaccounted for
mist, from the splash of Icarus*

*Brueghel's Icarus is the painting captured in W.H. Auden’s poem, Musée des Beaux Arts— a written account of rural life that carried on around Icarus, the Greek Mythological boy who fell from the sky with a tragic, yet insignificant splash into the harbour.

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