i rise

i rise

Nana, in the kitchen,
her glasses loose on their string,
pours Uncle Sam cereal
into her measuring cup;
shakes, puts a little more.
I close my eyes; I hear:

My finger-scratch on chalky page.

Sister puts out bowls, spoons—
thunk-k-clakit—she fills
and sets a pot to boil—
metal scrapes—schk-cisch-k
on metal, shivers climb
my back, neck, up my scalp.

Nana strikes a match—chih
chi-kishhh-whumph—as the gas  
catches, under her gray,
dented percolator.

Wishhh-burble-urble and  
long fooshh; over 'n over,
all-out under-water
zoo sounds, the lonesome sigh
of percolation.

I touch sore lip; I smell
…burnt-dirt coffee, eau de
lilac, violet soap,  
vaseline; tree-of-heaven
and mildew from the porch.
I tongue my teeth. I taste
…cavity, Sunday fear,
last night's cream soda float. 

feel everything


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Sunday, September 23, 2018

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fine art prints
writing by Greg Correll