Excerpts

First Confession

It’s a dirge. If you listen underneath

Do not tell him he should
have hired a female architect.
Even that Crazy Man of Faith
agrees we have a hygiene problem.
No point in complaining; just
try not to slip in sludge.
Above all do not nag. Let the stench
smell for itself. Pray quietly
to a kinder God that before another
forty day disaster, someone invents
the pitchfork, and a wife who says
no thanks when invited on a cruise.

from the title of a poem by Wislawa Szymborska

Nothing has changed.
One day follows another,
a line of ants, each carrying
a grain of sugar from the bowl.

My father is still dead.
I’ve seldom thought of him
these last five years, and then, usually
with an arrogant kind of pity.

Nothing has changed.
Wind blows through bamboo,
or not. Sun heats my uncovered
head, or not.

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

It was another hot day, and he had a full list again –
excavate here, grade there, dig that septic tank across town. D worked hard. He
started early and didn’t stop until the night made it impossible to see the
survey stakes and lines any more.

He knew Mrs. D wasn’t so happy with his busy schedule. Yes,
she had tolerated it, even approved of it, when they were younger. But
sometimes now he can hear a sour note in her voice when he tells her he doesn’t
know how late he’s going to be because he’s going to talk to J about the big
job coming up at the self-help subdivision, or stop for a quick one on the way
home.

Yup, another hot day. D hoped the trades would pick up to
blow some of the heat away. He grabbed his cap off the nail and gave Mrs. D a
perfunctory peck on the cheek on his way out the door.