LYN LIFSHIN

Fiesta Ware

bright discs, cobalt and
vermillion on tv tables
in the grey living room
if I was sick but usually
overflowing with brisket
in the kitchen with the
WW2 crackling linoleum
where my sister spit
how sloppy our father's
table manners were.
Circles within circles,
like we were.  I was
closest to my mother's 
arms, pudgy, shy, with
out boys calling.  She
could hold me as if
holding one of the plates
that seemed ordinary
but she knew would, later,
be rare and by someone
with taste, cherished

copyright 2003 LYN LIFSHIN

LYN LIFSHIN

My Mother's Nicotined Stained Clock

round as an Art Deco
mirror, a Heywood
Wakefield vanity's
curve, flowers of smoke
in the dial.  If it moved,
a burst of Marlboro
or Herbert Tereton
cigarettes would unravel
in Virginia, ten hours
away from where it
soaked up smoke and
dust 50 years.  The cool 
marble burns memories
into skin.  If I licked the
glass I'd taste my mother

copyright 2003 LYN LIFSHIN