Still Wild

November 2017

I entered the landscape of mood,

hid my emptiness in saggy flannel pajamas,

my hair, unwashed for days,

my face wore constant astonishment.

 

The tips of your newborn ears

covered in black downy hair,

your cries sliced through layers

of slumber like a seam ripper undoing stitches,

I rolled off the bed, stumbled to the crib,

viewed you like a museum exhibit:

fists and sinew.

 

a teenage staleness

marked our room,

at 3 a.m. we listened to radio documentaries

about dairy cows in Australia,

rocked and rocked

in a maroon glider,

you churned your own milky dreams.

 

I put my nose to your oily,

beating scalp,

the earthen smell

still reeking of my womb,

your gummy mouth,

snapped at my breast.

 

Your eyes:

bird dark,

the lights of the city,

civilized dots on the horizon

kept calling like a nagging friend

through the corner window.

Recipes

BY Maxine Lewis

I have not finished sorting the recipes. There are literally thousands of them. As her memory became less sharp she no longer picked out good recipes with a discerning eye. Instead, she indiscriminately saved every recipe she came across. It was as if by losing herself in that old familiar action, she could somehow be back in the day when she would actually use them.