Nothing Miraculous in Any First Meal
Poem by Kelli Allen. Photo by Constance M. Tucker.





                                                    for Elizabeth Bishop


The sun’s big toe dipping in and out, making ringlets
in the soon dark river, and I know it is too cold to care
about her eyes, crumbs for seeing, all over my back
as I dive and then swim.  
Across the long lightening
Lines between this cloud and that fog, I think
how foolish, how juvenile they are, she and her
small man, cuddling ugly clay mugs against
their thin chests, hers freckled beneath an old sweater, his
bare, shaved clean and swift as bird feathers.   My house,
in every season, has not borne the silliness of animals
or breakfast, or any such oddity as her buttered rolls and scones.


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