Green Hills Literary Lantern



Pickup Time


Slime mold remakes the Tokyo railroad.

Honeybees recognize human faces.

I remember snacks for carpool.


The snacks are indeed worth remembering.

Their colors and forms artfully mimic

certain kinds of slime mold—


some before, some after being eaten.

Here drives a put-together woman, implacable

as she is placid. I give her a duchess’ berth


and count my Lucky Charms. Clover, clover, clover,

will I ever be allowed my own marshmallow,

its desiccation to dissolve at the tip of my tongue?



Before Thanksgiving


Downstairs, a man

is putting plates away.

A slow, white clatter,


the cabinets banging, opening,

banging shut. The water running

in the metal sink—washing


an apple, for apple sauce.

Or red cabbage, pungent-edged

and crisp as shale.


The big knife against the block.

The dense purple cabbage.

The rust-stained apple skins.


Plastic rustling. Water again.

This is my house, if I can keep it.

It’s cold outside. There’s likely snow.




Amy Eisner teaches creative writing and literature at the Maryland Institute College of Art in Baltimore.