Patricia for Winter
Once whole cherry
pie wet with knuckles
pressed to crust
careful in the
kitchen,
bowls crooked
in dishwater and
silverware glints
with promise of
tomorrow’s tasks:
our pistachio ice
cream and key lime whip,
your hands purple
with longing, ever
green on the terrace
bent to bricks
in a straw hat,
your back to
fresh labor
in daffodils, flashes
of your laughter
or the radio
knobs twisting
as our arms
bare to air—
You teach me to stay up
late and study snowflakes
for their delicate
bones press the
pavement
and we skate
the floorboards
in wool socks
You say at
this hour the
torrent is bright
and the skyline
is silent, but
just a second
this thud of
blue ice against
the panes
might melt to the
screech of a
signal, red
peppers dangling
bright from the
eaves, you spin
and release me
right as the chords
polish melody
pastry shell rises
and holds
your timing.
The one
trick you taught
me: to keep
your stove warm
when absence
scrapes as
spoons do
the empty plate
*
Sofia Bagdade is a poet from New York City. Her work appears in The Shore, Red Weather, and The Basilisk Tree. She finds joy in smooth ink, orange light, and French Bulldogs.
