Dandelion
wrapped in faded folded
wax paper and discovered
in the top drawer
of her mother’s armoire,
she became that five-year-old girl first plucking them from the grass then running into the kitchen
look what I picked for you.
Into a Flintstone jelly glass they would go,
but they never lasted long. They never rivaled
the large sunflowers
that graced the dining room table. She thought her mother’s smile obligatory, unimpressed.
But she found this pressed dead dandelion, after all these years, and then recalled
how they would pick the weed when it was a fuzzy white ball, lean in together, head-to-head, and make a silent wish,
don’t tell—just blow.
Schuykill Journal Review
Wild Raspberries
a Duplex
On a bad news day we picked wild raspberries. They were tart, but not distasteful—a little like us.
The jelly rings went sour and left a lingering taste. Three deaths, one hastened, one forlorn, one unborn.
Three lives hastened, unborn, forlorn, have left their mark.
She could not recall which leg had the smooth, oval, snake bite.
Lilith’s bite is worse than a snake’s and leaves a smooth oval stain.
The old woman believed every death was merely an end of story.
Do not end the story on an old woman’s belief.
The goal is to ingest every word in every book he wrote.
Every book, every word he wrote is a most worthy goal. The deep ache is a reminder to keep breathing.
Keep breathing.
Keep breathing. Despite the deep ache. Keep breathing. We picked wild raspberries on a day full of bad news.
Silver Birch Press
My Paandaani
Pretty old, fully functional although not in use. Octagonal copper container, floral embossed with a working clip. The lid’s metal handle
no longer holds.
Purchased from a metal stall in Raja Bazaar.
An antique . . . no, museum piece.
Weren’t they all? Well, it was well-
bartered to be sure. Tray still covers six metal compartments colored by tobacco, cardamom, cloves. Lethal breath mints wrapped in betel leaves that were once sold then spit
staining every street. For thirty years
it held tissues that casket teeth—baby teeth puppy molars. Stick-figure drawings. Notes. Take my tooth and give me money.
Fairly forgotten on a credenza in the den. Rotted teeth. Jagged little bones.
Character wears better on copper.
My paandaani. Punjabi palate cleanser kit.
Memsahib Memoirs, Plan B Press
Polaroid
They posed in size order, barefoot by the bundt cake: my family at Thanksgiving—not one smile in the room. Two held dish towels, Leah’s legs wrapped in bandages.
Floral print aprons, ivy, brick and striped walls—the bandages the only solid in this high-ceilinged kitchen. A chocolate cake displayed like a trophy on a glass pedestaled plate centered the room.
Union City, New Jersey, 1971: men smoking Chesterfields in the living room, women drinking pina coladas from teacups.
Even Leah’s bandages could not sway how they savored
the rum, devoured the home-made cake.
Cake, cigarettes, pina coladas—all in one room— their love bandaged and preserved.
After Hours Happy Review, ‘Family’ The Poet
Room in New York, 1932
Edward Hopper painting
To live in a brownstone in Washington Square
with that handsome man, the shock of white
of his shirt, the shadows that outline strong shoulders, muscular arms. The black tie tucked in by collar
and vest. And your window, uncurtained, wide open.
But the walls of this brownstone—where are the shelves lined by books, ceiling to floor, the musty smell
of leather, paper, fresh ink—permanence?
To live in a brownstone in Washington Square,
there must be books.
Seems to this voyeur, more than that oak table
separates the two of you.
Landscape prints make this room even darker, your dress,
the tufted club chair and a lampshade the sole source of light. And you—side saddled on the piano bench,
head bent down, in your lovely red sleeveless frock,
a subtle hint of ruffle at your back, as your index finger lightly strokes a random key. What song plays in your head? Alone Together or Willow Weep for Me?
And yet, his eyes are devoted to news in the evening Sun.
Did you spend time at Chumley’s earlier this eve?
It’s been said that sometimes Millay mans the bar—
she’s a so-so listener, but keen to spout a sonnet request:
I would indeed that love were longer-lived . . . she has said.
Oh that door! It looms perfectly centered between
the two of you. And you, still seated on the piano bench, still not committed to that seat. That door beckons,
the window tempts, you can hear music from the street, and the night still so young, why linger any longer?
A Certain Kind of Swagger
My Daughter Bought Me an Orchid Plant
for Mother’s Day
four years ago,
two days after
my mother died.
As a rule,
I kill orchids,
which my mother
had often said I did
to her.
I was not one
to be generous
with water,
somehow,
despite me,
this orchid survived.
It thrived,
grew more leaves
even rose again,
pale pink flowers
on twin stems,
as if it had a will
to stay alive.
This winter
has been long
and stagnant.
The orchid
has endured,
has grown
two sturdy sprouts.
I am still waiting.
Like a resurrection
of sorts,
this Mother’s Day
plant. Or is it
my mother’s hand,
somehow rising
from a grave,
to promise,
this one will live.
Silver Birch Press
Julie Tepper Standig 