Father at the Stove
Father was a picky eater.
Mother would fuss over the stove,
a different pot for each of us.
It was her undoing.
She would make cod for me.
Brother, sister, other dishes.
But Father was exotic:
razor clams, conger fish
goose barnacles—
all fine, till the egg.
The fried egg.
It was her Everest.
Her culinary summit
unconquered.
Arguments would flare,
the yolk was cold.
Father would demonstrate
with another egg.
Mother, humiliated,
Father at the stove
pouring hot oil
over the yolk.
The family meal
disrupted.
Irretrievably.
*
The Morning After the Storm
I walk into the fresh battlefield
to inspect the fallen limbs.
Which tree do they belong to?
The shapes they take—
landing and settling,
a second planting.
The missing sound
of the open wound.
The creek rages,
chocolate-thick,
oxidized venous blood
carrying limbs lost upstream.
There is a hush in destruction,
pregnant with sound.
It fades slowly,
like folding eggs into batter.
If you listen carefully,
you can hear the hum.
After the storm,
what needed to break
has broken,
and stilled.
*
Forcing Last Rites on My Father
Calling the priest never crossed our minds.
Religion was not your cup of tea.
But your sister insisted, called him anyway
behind our backs. And when he arrived—
black robes cloaking a flawed man—
he insisted too and barged into your room.
You sat there, puzzled by the vials of oil
and paraphernalia. We were kids, peering through
the cracked door, tears of helplessness.
When he was done, we cursed him down the stairs.
He claimed God was on his side.
We knew better.
*
The Chestnut Grove
You took us to the mountains
to show us the forestland
we would inherit—
the three of us.
I don’t remember what
my two siblings were promised,
but mine was the old chestnut grove.
Ancient, contorted trees
offering green, spiky parcels
cradling leathery fruit.
Trees native to the land,
unlike the eucalyptus
crowding all around us.
I think about that grove—
seen only once
four decades ago,
three of those you’ve been gone.
Your will, still unsettled,
the land still waiting,
the trees still bearing chestnuts
every fall.
*
Dolo Diaz is a scientist / poet with roots in Spain, currently residing in California. Her work has appeared/forthcoming in ONE ART, The Summerset Review, Third Wednesday, The Lake, among others. Website: dolodiaz.com.