A Brittle Thing

I will not bring back
the hot buzz of his irritation,

remembering the long porch instead, in the cool early sun.
Blueberries, peaches, murmurous cream in bowls.
The dew drying.

I will not replay the snap of his voice which unspooled
a long dissertation on the right way to butter bread and then
an addendum on how

a spoon must be held.

I will dwell instead on the August pasture. Wild grain escaped
and ripened. Buttercups. Hawkweed. Tidy clover, so demure.

The air stiffened when I persisted, awkwardly clenching
my spoon in my fist.

I'll bring back instead the shape of the long slope down to the sea.
Dusty gravel road swings around, wheat field stops
at the granite shore.

The sky is blue.
There is never rain in the sky.

As if I had molded it all myself, I bring it back,
and climb the rocks while the tide pulls
yellow brown seaweed up to the light,

and lets it go. I refuse to regret, and regret
will not leave. The sea urchin on my shelf
comes from that shore — a brittle thing,
and hollow.

Alice Duggan's poems have been published in the Water~Stone Review, Blue Earth Review, Plainsongs, Moon Journal, and the Friends Journal (a Quaker publication.) She is currently a student in Jude Nutter's critique group. Alice is a chronic and civic gardener, working at her local library garden and at home.