Where Does It Begin?
(originally published in The Charlotte Poetry Review)
Possibly with well-steeped tea,
gooseberry jam on raisin bread,
lots and lots of idle chatter;
later, he could try daily walks
through the woods — though she
has resolved she is finished with
nature — still he persists
in pointing out the log in the creek
holding five mossy-backed turtles;
if all else fails he could try
brushing her hair in the rough manner
of a mother, offhand, impatient fussing
to decipher knots. He could place her
in a room filled with the images
of budding spring trees, on a wide,
comfortable sofa, her stockinged feet
perched lightly upon the armrest
as she reads. The sight
of the frail new leaves will work
upon her, surely? Better yet,
he could fill a bowl with fruit,
three kinds of berries,
layering green upon yellow
upon blue upon red, teasing her
with a few squares of chocolate,
protesting all the while
that he always says the opposite
of what he means. Who lived my life
until this day? she will say. I could
ask myself the same question, he will
say by way of answer, placing his hands
lightly, lightly upon her shoulders.
Kimberly Townsend Palmer 