Tender and Warm

She is tender and warm. Arrives on a morning fresh Without light knock or bell Like a whiff of tea and toast Upon a hot summer breeze. She is tender and warm. We perch on auburn-dabbed cliffs, shoulder against shoulder Study each other sideways. Relax, with breath abated An odd-looking pair, yet Somehow finely matched. She is tender and warm. Our bodies crumple in a fit of laughs. With our heels, we plough small Rocks along and off the dusty edge. Languish in and read saucy prose Savour a bookish kind of bliss. She is tender and warm. Inside, I…

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Pears – For Kathleen B. Nestor by Mary D’Angelo

  O, how you filled my baby days with sticky sweet-tasting pureed pears, strained through the family sieve. The yellow-skinned fruit with the spherical base and tapered top that you would skin with your sharp knife.   How we laughed when the cat played with the peel, pawing it through the air, while I sat strapped in the high-chair, my mouth shaped in the smallest O, my eyes wider than the years between us.   My mouth a hangar, the spoon of pears a plane that zipped though the air, each swallow followed by a laugh.   How our memories…

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The Salt God’s Daughter – Ilie Ruby

5.0 out of 5 stars Do Not Miss This Book, October 17, 2012 By TD Gibson “T. Gibson” This review is from: The Salt God’s Daughter (Hardcover) The Salt God’s Daughter, Ilie Ruby’s latest novel, is set in the 1970s in Long Beach, California, on the frigid, mysterious and unassuming Pacific Ocean. With remarkable diction and cadence, Ruby has skilfully sculpted an epic tale about the lives of three generations of women and written it with such eloquence, the pages often sang to me, leaving me salt-drenched, feeling protected by fuchsia bougainvilleas, and in a state of breathlessness. From the…

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One Death – Geraldine Connolly

When my grandmother was dying in her soft bed in the corner of my aunt’s farmhouse kitchen, we all sat with her, even the children   staring at the white, shut face, masked in a rapture of its own while all the noisy racket of death filled the air, lungs letting go,   blood about to rise in a purple wash, the pot of bones knocking, in a fury to stay behind, stay with us. Or perhaps the soul was rattling   its grip, a last hold on life, giving the body one final slap, she shuddered and trembled so,…

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For She Is A Tree Of Life – Marge Piercy

In the cramped living room of my childhood between sagging rough-skinned sofa that made me itch and swaybacked chair surrounded by ashtrays where my father read every word of the paper shrouded in blue smoke, coughed rusty phlegm and muttering doom, the rug was a factory oriental and the pattern called tree of life.   My mother explained as we plucked a chicken tree of life: I was enthralled and Hannah my grandmother hummed for me the phrase from liturgy: Eytz khayim hee l’makhazikim bo v’kol nitee-voteh-ho shalom: for she is a tree of life to all who hold her…

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