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.