Monday, February 15, 2016

bread and pho

you’ll never get to taste my bread
i’ll never get to use your mixer
just think of the flour fight that might ensue
just think of the cackling of two magpies

i will name a new kind of dough after you
it will have sweetness of dried fruits 
and an over abundance of butter, more butter

we never were shy about fat, you and i
we never believed in limits to our palate
we made others envious of our cuisine

you’ll never eat my pho again
like the time at your parent’s house
we had it stinking of cooking fish sauce
but the kids devoured the food, you smiled

15 february 2015 

a scottish cemetery

in scotland this time of year;
daffodils carpet the cemetery; 
so delicate, swaying gently.

old man’s beard laden the old oaks;
i wandered beneath them on worn paths.

hard to believe i found such tranquility;
hard to accept you are to be in such a place.

incontrovertible that you have left us;
i hope you have found serenity.

it is  eventual the world will hear; i know,
our raucous laughter will sound again, together.

15 february 2015