Seen from your upper
window, down the block
at some remove,
an Edward Hopper black and white
and grainy through the screen,
a street lamp’s cone
shines down. There,
you notice a figure,
indistinct, possibly familiar,
curled as if to tie a shoe,
and wonder who it is
How Family Stories Go
A cured and hanging ham,
one of several,
drawn from a dark larder in the back
of a paid-down clapboard house.
Hard. A little shrunk. With a flourish
it’s revealed on the cutting board.
Each time, descendants of the first cook
warm to their preferred culinary arts:
de-bone, carve, shave, mince.
Yet, somehow it grows.
>Gesticulations plate the serving.
Pauses lend the character of sauce.
The chef in residence
presents a mouthful. Even so,
it can be hard to chew.
You’ve got to mostly swallow whole
something you may digest for years.
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