Sunday, June
Trying to give, I fail too often.
But this day we prepare for you
food that your beloved often cooked,
made with the ingredients of 19,000
nights and promises of more to come.
These potatoes. That beef, the fruit.
Simple, and yet so difficult to reproduce.
Even the recipe is incomplete. “Some
mayonnaise,” it says, then “mustard,”
but not whether dry or prepared, and
the amount is unclear. Yet the results
transport you to stronger days, to
the clear-eyed self and limitless
possibilities, meals on the table
at five o’clock, the satisfaction of work
well done, knowing that you have soared
above your father’s imprecations
but never beyond love’s touch, her
sleepy murmurs, morning coffee,
burnished histories and late cigarettes,
the tulips on the soil you’ll soon share.
“Sunday, June” first appeared in the print journalΒ Nourish in March 2018.
O at the Edges 
That last line offers the promise of a welcome resolution.
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I believe it was welcome.
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Sweet sadness … great model, nudge to those wondering what they could possibly offer near a loved one’s end. Chuckled at the vague ingredient details – cards from my mother’s box (kept for sentimental energy, rarely opened) likewise read like a list of candidates … if available, throw in some …
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All we can do is try. Trying to reproduce my mother’s recipes is still difficult, even after years of experience. π
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“knowing that you have soared above your fatherβs imprecations…” what a great line. Parental concern as a curse, love as a backhanded compliment (“I just don’t want to see you get hurt”… by following your passions), and so on, all the implications. You are a master of allusion even while your allusions are designed to being “filled in” by the memories and desires of the reader, what you might call a master of “unoccupied allusions”.
Do you ever wonder why every poetry journal from A to Z is publishing your stuff? No mystery. You are a titan of the Unoccupied Allusion, and you won’t be overthrown by Zeus anytime soon, that is for sure! π
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My grandfather told my father that he’d never amount to anything, which spurred Dad on to far surpass his father’s accomplishments. He told me that he never respected his father, which I think is a most damning statement. Ha! The unoccupied allusion! I like that. It’s truly what I strive for.
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That is sad, to not respect one’s father. Another aspect of Life with which to occupy the allusion with. What a German-American and/or German-Canadian thing to do tough, surpass those who would suppress…
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Sad, but in this case, deserved.
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Oops! That should read “though” instead of “tough”.
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Ah, the internal editor read “though.” Ha.
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“…burnished histories and late cigarettes,
the tulips on the soil youβll soon share.”
Love these lines!β€οΈπ₯° The lyrical flow of this piece was amazing! Sad without being depressed, real but not harsh. As someone who cannot compose a poem to save my life, I really admire your talent and diligence!
As a fellow writer, I would love to know your thoughts about my style. Leaving the link of newest post below in case you want to check it out later. π
https://saraabesukhan.com/unsigned-love-letters-in-the-memory-of-loving/
Once again, great job with this one! π
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Thank you for your kind comments. I’ll be sure to visit your blog. I’m working these days, and have little free time, but will attempt to put together some thoughts for you.
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