Foundation
My grandmother's house
was held aloft by chicken feet
As a child I cowed from their talons,
not understanding their sharpness
against my grandmother's softness,
the ease at which she moved through life.
She cooked for me.
She placed a plate of chicken legs before me,
succulent and salted, to feed and nourish, and I learned that
her home was where she looked after the chickens
and also where she wielded the knife.
My mother's house had arms
that held us aloft from the ground,
carried us with surety through the storms
and kept us in the light of the sun.
When the house quaked, my mother did not.
Later I learned that the arms were hers,
a world placed upon her shoulders,
Atlas with dark eyes and a box of cake mix.
My home now has arms and talons that are
strong and sharp, cakes and chickens
with which to feed — a foundation
upon which a woman is created
Before/After
The harbingers of war
aren’t the sounds of brass horns
blaring into the dawn,
or the click of a bolt sliding into place.
It’s a voice lowered to a whisper,
the slide of a coin across a wood counter
at the breadmaker’s shop,
the fast tapping of heels on cobblestone
finding home before curfew.
The heralds of peace
aren’t the sounds of church bells
waking a city at dawn,
jubilant voices raised in the streets.
The aftermath of victory is a hollow void —
blanched faces picking through rubble,
caressing balm over scars.
There is very little that exists in the
before or after of a war.
That is what the before and after share —
a collective intake of anticipation,
a veil of quieting,
an aching sigh,
and the space between breaths —
one breath, until the next — a hush.