Sunday

stirs itself
like heartache,
peppers the pot
of chicken broth
and white rice
laced with onion.
This was your recipe,
as close as I can get 
to it now in the absence
of a yellow-edged 
index card. I look
past the strawberries
that trim your curtains
to the rusting canopy
of the smoker
where you smoked 
Thanksgiving turkeys,
remembering your beer
belly, almost as big
as my belly. I pull 
the cooling chicken
away from the bone,
fingertips stinging
when the tendons
touch. I pile
pieces of boiled
meat, light
and dark against
the plate. Over
my shoulder
your rump-spun
recliner sits 
in the place where 
I sat at your feet
consuming your presence.  
I look for you every day.
I wait for you to appear
while I sleep. Grief 
knows no pattern,
no routine. Somewhere,
the black plastic comb
waits for my tiny fingers
to lace its teeth 
through your fair hair.

For Poppie and Osie