Unveiling the Sun
Paring a garnet yam, I unveil the sun.
Peeling a round onion, I hold the moon.
Both grew below ground,
and journeyed to this sacrificial moment.
Slicing with care, sautéing in olive oil,
adding garlic, spinach and a portabella,
I see earth and sky unite.
Daring Danger
A crowd watches
twenty-foot waves crash
on the jetty behind Morro Rock.
Ocean swells explode
invoking desire and dread.
Controlled danger
compelled me to come
to practice fear, then relief,
not like my burst appendix,
not like my brother dropping dead,
not like times when life crashes in on me.
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Cemetery Sunday, 1948
Mother filled mayonnaise jars with her iris
and Pop propped them in our'38 Ford.
The older kids opted out, but I got yanked away
from playing baseball to go to the Coulterville Cemetery
where we'd meet my aunt and uncle and their daughter.
I got the annual lecture to be nice to my cousin June
who had had polio and how impolite it is
to stare at people's problems, like June's limp.
Wearing a blue velvet dress, June got out
of their shiny sedan. She was gushy sweet,
and I did my urchin best to act nice
and talk about going into third grade
while we walked, trying not to step on graves.
I hated her for being happy, for ruining my day,
for wanting to come to the Coulterville Cemetery,
for wanting to come with her parents.
My mother placed her iris on the gravesite
and my aunt placed a store-bought vase of gladiolas.
I wondered if my grandparents lying below us
were glad for the company and the flowers,
how they felt, alone in the Coulterville Cemetery,
if they were sorry I missed a baseball game…
I didn't know, but I noticed my aunt looking at me.
She was staring.
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