Selected Poems
Sundays
Each week we gathered at Grandma's.
Sunday afternoons were soaked in sound.
Our native tongue was noise.
In the kitchen,
the hard chop on the wood cutting board
creak and closing oven door
slide of filled metal pans
snap sizzle of roasted meat.
In the dining room,
the soft hush of an unfurled table cloth
clink of placed glasses
sing tingle of silverware
clack song of unstacked plates.
We have black and white proof, in pictures.
We hear echoes of proud satisfied voices
and make a new noise, now on our own.
Sunday afternoons were soaked in sound.
Our native tongue was noise.
In the kitchen,
the hard chop on the wood cutting board
creak and closing oven door
slide of filled metal pans
snap sizzle of roasted meat.
In the dining room,
the soft hush of an unfurled table cloth
clink of placed glasses
sing tingle of silverware
clack song of unstacked plates.
We have black and white proof, in pictures.
We hear echoes of proud satisfied voices
and make a new noise, now on our own.
