Fridays she asked the butcher for a special blend
of pork and ham which were and were not
the same to me then, but mixed to make a
third glorious thing for Sunday suppers.
Those were the days my grandmother held
on to stale bread to make her own
crumbs, eggs from Belva’s place up the
road, cans on hand of evaporated milk
Saturdays she’d mix slow and taste it raw, add pepper ,
salt, her secret spice mix.
Even after her hands seized up
she found a way to make
A glistening loaf -tart, sweet, salty with
that secret saucey mustard and dark brown
sugar on top that probably tastes
better in memory but tempts my return
to the old box at the back of my cupboard
a card with her fingerprints, her slanted script,
smudges of days spent at her pitted oak table
learning to mix slowly, rest, then serve.
Early Morning Poems 