Hobble Creek Review
| Cheryl Snell |
Preserve
I pull out the last of the piccalilli,
twist the jar open. The pungency
of mustard seed and pickling spice pulls me back
to a kitchen the color of faded photographs
and I am once again at my mother’s table
among the green tomatoes and onions.
All that summer, backyard harvest spilled
from our aprons onto a butcher block
made for the knife. We paid no attention
to chopping tears, but talked and worked
until our thoughts took us away
in the silence of four hands moving.
We would never have mentioned winter
if the sky had not suddenly grayed, our fingers
stuttering above the fruits of summer
like the slow start of rain.
Cut
I start with the curls,
snip the dark with the silver
somersaulting to the floor.
If I drop the scissors you'll say
that one of us is unfaithful--
but I'm not superstitious, and I know
the quirks of scissors: twin arms
easily uncoupled; better together,
though crossed as swords.
Beat
like a faithful lover
intending to deceive
the body begins to betray you
it sends up warning flares
along a highway narrowing
without further notice
onlookers spin away
from the fire climbing
the tight fists of your spine
you draw the covers up
to drown out the hissing in blood
that pulses everywhere at once
in terror and in guile
the body tries to hide what it knows
under complicated rhythms
I pull out the last of the piccalilli,
twist the jar open. The pungency
of mustard seed and pickling spice pulls me back
to a kitchen the color of faded photographs
and I am once again at my mother’s table
among the green tomatoes and onions.
All that summer, backyard harvest spilled
from our aprons onto a butcher block
made for the knife. We paid no attention
to chopping tears, but talked and worked
until our thoughts took us away
in the silence of four hands moving.
We would never have mentioned winter
if the sky had not suddenly grayed, our fingers
stuttering above the fruits of summer
like the slow start of rain.
Cut
I start with the curls,
snip the dark with the silver
somersaulting to the floor.
If I drop the scissors you'll say
that one of us is unfaithful--
but I'm not superstitious, and I know
the quirks of scissors: twin arms
easily uncoupled; better together,
though crossed as swords.
Beat
like a faithful lover
intending to deceive
the body begins to betray you
it sends up warning flares
along a highway narrowing
without further notice
onlookers spin away
from the fire climbing
the tight fists of your spine
you draw the covers up
to drown out the hissing in blood
that pulses everywhere at once
in terror and in guile
the body tries to hide what it knows
under complicated rhythms
Cheryl Snell’s books include poetry-- Flower Half Blown (Finishing Line
Press), Epithalamion (Little Poem Press), Samsara (Pudding House Press),
and a novel, Shiva’s Arms. She is also book reviews editor at Alsop Review.
This is Cheryl's second appearance in HCR.
Press), Epithalamion (Little Poem Press), Samsara (Pudding House Press),
and a novel, Shiva’s Arms. She is also book reviews editor at Alsop Review.
This is Cheryl's second appearance in HCR.
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