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My mother spreads tinsel snow over the kitchen sills,
sets the cedar manger in its place, arranging
the hollow plastic magi next to a cradle
displaying the baby Jesus missing an arm.
The little enameled figure of Mary kneeling
embraces something only she can see. Pinned to the banister,
our crocheted stockings sag. All afternoon
she listens to laundry click in the pantry dryer,
packing layers of chocolate cake and home-made cream
into Tupperware for the Heath-Bar trifle we love.
Light moves across the counter, almost touching her hand,
shattering over an open drawer of knives.
From "Snapshots 1," Other Latitudes (University of Akron Press, 2008).
Used with the author's permission.
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Brian Brodeur was born in Worcester, Massachusetts in 1978 and has worked as a musician, teacher, waiter, editor, and library specialist. Associate Professor of English, Creative Writing with a Poetry Focus at Indiana University East, he is the author of four poetry collections and two poetry chapbooks. Brian created "How a Poem Happens," an online anthology of more than 200 interviews with contemporary poets. He lives in the Whitewater River Valley of Indiana. Learn more about him at https://brianbrodeur.wixsite.com/poetry.
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jedolphin:
Memories -- those evanescent moments that live within us and, more importantly, sustain us all through life. This captures that and more -- perfectly.
Posted 12/02/2014 08:58 AM
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Jo:
Thank you for the gentle poem that brought me peace tonight.
Posted 12/01/2014 10:01 PM
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Larry Schug:
Any poem in which light plays a prominent role appeals to me. Good eye!
Posted 12/01/2014 08:07 AM
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