Belikh family, with daughters Lyuba and Vera, and granddaughters at dacha in summer
The Twenty-Sixth Poem October 2, 2022
Day after day the same view,
books nearby, most unsorted,
I sit in my office chair where I
eat and write, where I keep
things I like to look at: my
teacup, the old honey jar, and
the new one, my two medicine
bottles, my red and green placemat,
and napkin, a water bottle, a
small flashlight, to help me read,
a small plant with yellow flowers,
salt and pepper shakers, a roll
of paper towels, two candles, two
photos, both of myself, at age one
and a half. In one held by my father,
my mother smiling. In the other,
alone in my borrowed crib–
alone and surprised: Who are
you? I seem to be asking.
a black duck’s feather, At
midnight black dark outside,
my peacock cup and toast
plate, the books I’m teaching,
heavy book boxes, and on them
the seeds that never got planted.
But we did have tomatoes.
I made spaghetti sauce four
times, safely stored in the freezer,
books on top, bread flours within.
Despite my illness, I flourish.
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