acceptance

Crumbs

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The trail you leave behind

in the kitchen

tells me

you want to be found,

not yet lost, but

still searching

 

I consider

my future with you

a morning ritual of baguette crumbs

from our favorite shop

scattered on the counter and floor

crunching under my feet

 

I wait in line

to buy the last loaf

standing tall in its bread basket

fresh in the early morning

still warm from the oven

the way you like it

 

I know there will be crumbs

and the trail that remains

after your midnight feast

of peanut butter and honey

on a toasted slice

yet I buy the baguette anyway

 

I carry my own crumbs

remnants of a life before you

a different time, different goals

hope, fear, love, disappointment

greatest joy and deepest sadness

challenges that we both faced

 

I didn’t know I was searching for you

we were both lost

in our thoughts, in our grief

As life proceeded with little consequence

as though everything was normal

So we normalized life

Together

 

I stand here for you

knowing that a life

of eloquent words

and a trail of bread crumbs

left behind in the morning

has captured my heart

Victoria Emmons, ©2019

Mom’s Scrambled Egg Casserole

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Twelve dozen. 

Maybe just one.

Crack each open. 

Open each crack. 

Careful. 

Mindful. 

No shells in the sink. 

Just think. 

You are her. 

Then stir. 

No denial. 

On trial. 

Recipe fits, try it.  

Topping too fat. 

Think of that.

Push. 

Shape eggs into mush.

Cheese sauce on top. 

Stop.

Bake ‘til done.

—Victoria Emmons, ©2017

Cancelled

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She tells me I am
Cancelled
Forever gone from her life
And those of her friends
Who think they are special
Better than the rest
Way better than me
In my frumpy gymsuit
And zero brand collars
No penny in my loafers
Much less fancy tags
From places I can’t pronounce

She tells me I am
Cancelled
Not among the invited few
With privileges to enter
No member number by my name
To celebrate a marriage
Play a volley of tennis
Swing a new driver on wet grass
Race against time in a private lane
On routine morning laps
That anesthetize life
For the next generation

She tells me I am
Cancelled
My child not smart enough
For lavish play circles
Skilled in violin or dance
Ivy League study trips
To Kathmandu or Tokyo
Shopping sprees in big cities
Filled with faces of a different kind
On shores not of our making
Horses race to the finish line
Await the golden prize

She tells me I am
Cancelled
Undeserving of her anointed
Self-importance as though
My gymsuit remains baggy
Shoes tattered and socks worn
Running on empty streets
Curbs with no master
To slow me at red lights or stop signs
Before dawn cracks open her window
Enough to see the hospital walls
Ahead in the darkened alley

She tells me I am
Cancelled
Uncertain who resides behind
The mask of protection from
A March madness that seeps
Into Earth’s seams
Slows its rotation
Halts splashes in the waves
Stops shiny rings on young fingers
Hopeful of a future that may disappear
She remains unaware
Lost in old reruns to mark time in place

She tells me I am
Cancelled
Waves her black pastic in my face
To let me know she pays for the best
Most famous doctor on his way
To save her skin from everyone else
Who sneezes with aching brains
Scarred lungs and seared hearts
Like hers left from years of ugliness
Too selfish to consider the value
Of what friendship might be
If she chooses to look

She tells me I am
Cancelled
As I wipe droplets from her sweaty brow
Insert fluids into her bulging veins
Ignore her delirium as nonsense
Spews from her crusty lips partnered
With the venom of her kind
Gasping for air and life all at once
Retreat from the past
Act in the now
Save the woman from herself
Save myself, too

I tell her she is
Cancelled
God knows we tried our best
Gave all we could
Against all odds
Isolation, ventilator and
Life-saving drugs aside
The same outcome
Her daughter cries
I discard my gloves in a red bag
And move to the next room
Another life cancelled

–Victoria Emmons, copyright, 2020

Freeze Frame

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Stuck in the age of Covid-19, racing to nowhere except a way out of this box to which the world has been condemned, a prison cell of prevention, or not, for those unlucky thousands who carry coronavirus with them to their graves, leaving the rest of us to worry about droplets lingering for days on Amazon delivery boxes, empty grocery store shelves, dirty gas pump handles, or our own Fido’s nose, even a child’s hand fresh from a playground jungle gym when the real jungle is Mother Earth spinning in all her infected glory, laughing as she twirls leaving that voice message that cries, “I told you so.”

—Victoria Emmons, copyright 2020

Couples

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Cup without a saucer
First name without a last
Activist without a handmade sign
Monkey without a banana to eat
Home without a state
State without a name
Hand without a finger
Nowhere is home
No place is mine
Where a heart resides in peace
Accepted by rulers
who prey upon strangers
and do not tolerate salt
without pepper.

—Victoria Emmons, © 2018