The foul smell of love:
Permeating the trailer
Sinking into the dishes, the cream cabinets, and
Our crinkled hands
While we worked together
A four year old and her mother.
Pickles for dinner
Bigger than my forearm
Sour enough to hurt your teeth.
The taste of those summer days,
Sweet country air
Seasoned with cedar and oak
And crunching into my mother’s love
Letting the juices fly across the kitchen.
This poem first appeared in Persona (Texas State University English Department, Issue 47 (Spring 2011): 62).
Used here with the author’s permission.