Rebecca Loudon 


When I heard you died, 
I thought of cabbages 
tight little heads in a row 
bunched and green 
and the salad we ate last April 
when Julia plucked out 
the blood ripe strawberries, 
spun them on her tongue. 

I cooked asparagus, 
silken, palm-heavy pears 
speckled, dripping 
toward your slow lung, 
your tired knobby spine. 

Later I brought casseroles; 
white sauce and baby peas 
soaked in butter, 
soup that snapped with tiny carrot fingers, 
plump turnip hearts. 

When you stopped eating 
I still brought food, 
placed chocolate animals in a pentagram 
on your window sill 
to keep the dark, sweet dream 
at bay. 

Copyright 2000, Rebecca Loudon 

Rebecca Loudon is a violinist for Philharmonia Northwest. She has recently had work published in Between The Lines, American Jones Building & Maintenance and Switched-on Gutenberg

Switched-on Gutenberg/Vol. 4, No. 2 

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