Carrie Etter's blog: carrieetter.blogspot.com
Moment without Momentum
Her hands smell of chopped potatoes, of earth. A quickening, even here. The sky darkens predictably. Memory alongside experience, their intricate exchange. Leeks but not onions because he. No bother. An itch, a scratch. Some amazing circuitry. The stock simmers as the ordinary continues. One beat, two—and deepens with texture. Manifold honey. This may be stronger than bliss. Earlier she gazed over the valley.
As a little girl, all the birthstone jewelry. And the envy.
A quarter-acre corner lot, a five-bedroom. Three poplars at the back.
Who could want aquamarine? The luxury of gold topaz or ruby.
So many years later, walking along Green Park Road. Along the Avon.
Those matching necklace and ring sets. Even peridot suggested.
Playing outside through the summers. Peas off the vine.
A rain had passed. Thick, sweet, sudden smell of childhood.
Ruby, that was my mothers. Poplars along the path.
A luxury in the scent. A memorial on my finger.
Doubles, doppelgangers. One for me, one for her.
A true believer, she. First from California.
Images of snow in a desert. I chose secular.
Snowflake, teddy bear, bow-topped gift. Whats to say.
Irish Catholic—Flanagan. I left before.
England added a hare. All legs out-.
In Heaven, she said. A form of flight.
If I were sorry, I was alive.
We fought over forks and spoons.
The children kept breaking
into the pantry or on the pavement.
Interior or exterior view,
Id much to repent
as the price of silver fell
and bandages rose
and wove around us
the color of our childrens skin,
the color of no prison
but huge requiring
that caught me up in the mirror,
that other and selfsame.