What works is dish soap
squeezed and feathered over
wings. One wing per apron. One
entry per child. What
wings is leavening; not lard, not
thickening. What learns
is sore. What soaps is
in rubber gloves, is
old. We’ve known
the recipe for longer than we
say. We say it’s hard
to find the turtles. Everything’s
so dark. What you thought
gravel turned out to be fish.
is kerosene. What spills is
years. Plankton are known
for ganging up. What lights
What we rolled lacked substance:
a pie crust animals would scavenge
away from. Under the kitchen, tunnels
crowd like royalty. Little noses
press and snarl. I got a thorn on my
thumb. I brushed a diamond from my
eye. Just another day at the bakery,
you said. Was that a hawk or plain
paper on the stuck window? One pool
became a backyard ducks flew in.
The garden suffered. The mother tied
a plastic wrapping to her hair.
Was it always wet? Were we always
backing out of a blind drive? When
you get home, save me a slice.
Posterity. I promised somebody.
Sarah Green is a poet and singer-songwriter in Somerville, MA. Recent poems of hers appear or are forthcoming in FIELD, Cortland Review, and H-ngm-n. Her book “Signs For Come Here” was a finalist for the 2008 Walt Whitman Award. Her poetry has won a Pushcart Prize.