beside a kettle that hums over a subdued fire.
The sun peaks behind the green curtains, a gentle
cold temperature moves its weight through the window.
Junior's asleep. The stuffed Teddy that was his
present last Christmas is doing its mission well.
He tucks it in his blanket, a gift from his hero
sojourning the dried earth, the brown stalks of corn
managing themselves beyond the curve of the river
in a day as peaceful as a cloudless sky
and the quiet shadows moving behind the trees.
She always gets his call on Sundays
before the church tremors the wind with its bells.
Today, nothing. A lump finds its rest in her throat.
The pot boils. The kettle sings a brazen song.
"This day is no different than any other day,"
she comforts herself slicing the lemons and onions
till the curtain dances over the window cabinet
where his portrait, wearing a black beret, fell.
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