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Kentucky Fly-
Apron strings lurch
as I open the cupboard door,
once they embraced
my grandmother's frail bones,
like my arms.
Her earth work is displayed
in a glass garden
of luminescent jars.
Calico corn freckles
sunburst peaches
smoothing the beads
of overripe blackberries.
In a photograph
her head lies slumbered
against my grandfather's chest.
She shaves his whiskers with her eyes.
Fluorspar sunk its shaft,
dug trenches in his solemn face.
How it smoothed to a drum head
when she called.
A dusty jar,
sits among the stewed red tomatoes.
"This one we'll save for graduation,
yellow tomatoes are rarely canned."
A kiss is planted on my forehead,
fluttering in one breath
to the fat haired vines
heavy with yellow tenor.
I wrap the jars
in newspaper
and place them
neatly in boxes
next to the photograph.
She lies still
in her empty boat.
I did not quaver
when I let Kentucky fly-
twisting the lid loose
I watched the yellow contents
plummet to the ground.
ã 2002 Jennifer Russell
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