First Sonogram and How Family Stories Go, 2 poems by Eric Forsbergh

First Sonogram

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

Photo of long table set with food — Photo by Stella de Smit on *Unsplash*

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.

Eric Forsbergh’s poetry has appeared in The Journal of The American Medical Association, Artemis, The Sow’s Ear, and The Northern Virginia Review, which awarded him a Pushcart nomination in 2016. He is a dentist, having performed medical missions (Guatemala and Appalachia), and is a Vietnam veteran.