logo


Carrie Etter's blog: carrieetter.blogspot.com

_______

Contributor Notes




Carrie Etter

Carrie Etter




Carrie Etter

                                                                          

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. 


                                                                                               

 

 

Ruby

 

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 mother’s. Poplars along the path. 

A luxury in the scent. A memorial on my finger.


 

 

                                                                                               

 

Ornament

 

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. What’s to say.

Irish Catholic—Flanagan. I left before.

England added a hare. All legs out-.

In Heaven, she said. A form of flight.

 

 

 


                                                                                               

 

That Year

 

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,

I’d much to repent

as the price of silver fell

and bandages rose

 

and wove around us

the color of our children’s skin,

the color of no prison

but huge requiring

 

that caught me up in the mirror,

that other and selfsame.