Popcorn for Lunch

with a sprinkle of parmesan
made in a factory, not like
the wheel I made and cured
in brine for six months that winter
we had so much extra

milk and time, and snow drifts
grew more quickly than
the children. We never had
popcorn for lunch back then.
Only later when I lived

alone, kids grown, you
with a new wife, I would treat
myself to popcorn at mid-day,
defiant decadence. I think
you finally forgave me

for leaving that austere place
and you. How could you
know I was an urban popcorn
eater at heart? At our daughter’s

wedding you wished me well
with my new husband, even
mustered a hug. We changed
the rules several times while
married and now it doesn’t

matter. Your body six months
in the ground, our children
adrift in grief, and my only
wish – that I had been more kind.