by Mary R. Smith
Leaf through a life of jotted hours,
root around in a nest of notebooks
in the bottom drawer, pages yellow,
memory left to its own devices: Hollyhocks hid garbage cans along the alley.
A card found in my husband’s belongings, Grand Turkmen Hotel, Ashgabat.
A toddler rocks in the hammock,
an owl whoo whoos in the forest, .. I want to go see Mama.
For sixty years the family place
on Puget Sound, It sold today, the water and the trees ………………………………………………………..abide.
Return to Nigeria,
Igbo Celebration of Parents………...Theresa arranges for killing two cows for ……………………………………………………….the feast.
Innocent salutes the kindred assembled to …………………………………………..………….petition him for favors.
Lalibella, Ethiopia, Coptic churches
hewn from stone, .Priests swing censors in pre-dawn mist as ………………………………………………………penitents gather.
Bruno cries when he hears music, My heart trembles so loud.
Hidden, stuck between two legal pads,
a Story Corps recording; my daughter
interviewed her dad a month before he died.
I haven’t listened.
Mary Smith enjoys writing poetry as a hobby. Learning to write has been a life-long pleasure.