eats fruitcake. My father eats Seville marmalade
with a teaspoon. As he eats, I see how neat his
hair is above his ears. It is a silvery grey like polished
pewter. I know he used nail scissors to cut it. His ears
are like his mother’s, I think - they will continue to grow
until they are noticeable. She had large ears by the time
she died, but seemed unconcerned. Her skin,
she would say, was soft French skin - touch it! - the more
the better! I remember them both helpless with laughter
at a kafenion in Pireaus - Stasou! - Stasou!
It hurt to laugh so much. When my father laughs he stamps his feet.
Cherries and pistachios.
Cake.
Marmalade.
I give him some to take home. I have nothing else to give him. But
I want to, I desperately want to find something more. I want to load
him with things that are rich and red and salty and sweet. He puts on
his leather coat and wades backwards into the dark.
Mary McCallum
And here is a first ever review of a poem of mine. I am still grinning ...
and for more Tuesday Poems click on the quill in the sidebar.
Note: title change at 8.33 pm Tuesday Nov 2.
