Return to Top of Page
Menu
  • Close
  • About Us
  • Contributors
  • Donate
  • Opportunities
  • Staff
  • Submissions
  • 20 Years
  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Instagram
  • Search Website
Literary Mama
  • Current Issue
  • Past Issues
  • Departments
  • Blog
  • Newsletter

Poetry | May 2016

Mornings

By Wendy Mnookin

Mother liked to nap
so I stayed quiet with Grandpa behind the curtain. It was like a little house
in there, with his bed
and all the pillows, even a table and chair. Grandma Hattie worked
on the other side of the curtain.
The doorbell rang and she answered it and I heard shuffling
and talking and I wanted
to look. Grandpa said No, she was talking to people to make them feel better.
I sat on his bed
while he read the paper, pushing his glasses up on his nose
and making sucking sounds
through his teeth. Every once in a while he patted my head,
a little surprised to see it was me.
Lunchtime, Grandma Hattie pulled back the curtain
with two magic wands
and disappeared into the kitchen that fit one person at a time.
She made Grandpa red soup
with a circle of sour cream on top. She made Mother a sandwich
with a toothpick holding it together
which was too much food. And for me a hard-boiled egg
with raisin eyes
and carrot curl hair and a ruffled lettuce skirt. That egg
looked like it wanted to dance.
After lunch Grandma Hattie and I walked to the bakery
where I got a cookie
with a thumbprint of jam in the middle. The airĀ 
is good for you, she said,
pinching my cheeks to get the roses back.

 

 

 

Leave a Reply Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Share This Page

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Email
  • Copy Link

Wendy Mnookin

Learn More

Subscribe to Our Newsletter

Don't miss out on Literary Mama news and updates

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Instagram
  • Instagram
  • RSS

© 2023 Literary Mama | Search Site | About Us | Staff | Submissions | Privacy Policy