palaver
“All the times I have suddenly realized that my parents are dead, even now, it still surprises me, to exist in the world while that which made me has ceased to exist.”
the patina on the walls glows pink; my
hands search for meaning on the
stones, and I remember those small
teacups with misshapen handles
I’d painted the color of leaves,
mixing yellow and blue with brown
to shape birds that looked like kites
with tails that looked like trails to the
island I’d named maison de la lune.
the scent of butter from the kitchen
where jazz music seduces slow steps
and gentle gestures, a disposition of
ease. I used a soft brush to paint the
tops of each puff pastry before my grand
Mother slipped them into the oven,
fingers were gooey from the hot-crossed
buns we filled with candied fruit. Kneading
dough and rolling, I learned the art of
concentrated effort. I see myself at the
mouth of the rose; palms held upright
to receive a piece of currant cake.
Photo source.
