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| ~ Gravy ~ |
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| by K Violet * 2002 |
| Some Novembers and Decembers were all black, salt, a tall stack of red and blue chips, the gravy falling out of Daddy's pocket. Green on felt, messy gravy, accompanied by the smack and shuffle of the cards, and smoke. Mother flooded the kitchen, sound rather than smell. Broken ashtrays by midnight, payday. My sister and I learned of our mother's fear, not from her words, but from the cases of beans and half a cow, frozen. When the theif died, every crack in the system lost means, every hidden hole became a cavern waiting to trap and steal the family home, the mother's living, the children's inheritance, but they paid, they won, and saved the farm! Now, the mother chases the turkey through the yard, the daughters butter the corn and stir steaming vegetables, the son stokes the family fire, smoking, warming, and the new Daddy sharpens a turkey knife. Mother finds time to make a bucket of gravy, love, home, family, thanksgiving, and plenty of gravy. |
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| Poem of the Week * November 24 to 30, 2002 |
| Copyright (1998, 1999, 2000, 2002) poetrykk/Sheaves of Grass Any questions regarding this site or its activity is welcome, email me at poetrykk@yahoo.com |
| Sheaves of Grass **A Collection of Poems |
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