Finding the meal handy for long journeys, we called the cakes it made "journey cakes."
Tam Lin Neville
If she were to remember this room with is soap and tub, years from now when her burly body and dun-colored wings grace the ladderless rungs of heaven, the bulb would still burn all night and specks of exhausted insects rain down on the sink in the room that she kept, the room of her lifetime with its strange nocturnal habits,
somnambulant days, nights that went to perform landings she never got right,
leaving the dust of her wings on the sill, the soap, the lip of the tub, any ledge she could see or smell.
The way we tell someone's story: she lived, she died, she has gone to heaven-I want to ask, Can I say this? and not wait for an answer.
Her milky wings have carried her and she alights.
A rung, as though the clouds were beaded.
The volume of all those days shut with a whisper, a hum, its pages like snow
drifting closer to the sun on a cloudless day.
All those nights I did not know her, she has remembered these as only the beginning.
Udon is my favorite dish Paolo -- how did you know? Great comfort food. -- Love and health to you and yours -- Tam
I just re-read this poem Tam ….
From:
JOURNEY CAKE
Finding the meal handy for long journeys, we called the cakes it made "journey cakes."
Tam Lin Neville
If she were to remember this room with is soap and tub, years from now when her burly body and dun-colored wings grace the ladderless rungs of heaven, the bulb would still burn all night and specks of exhausted insects rain down on the sink in the room that she kept, the room of her lifetime with its strange nocturnal habits,
somnambulant days, nights that went to perform landings she never got right,
leaving the dust of her wings on the sill, the soap, the lip of the tub, any ledge she could see or smell.
The way we tell someone's story: she lived, she died, she has gone to heaven-I want to ask, Can I say this? and not wait for an answer.
Her milky wings have carried her and she alights.
A rung, as though the clouds were beaded.
The volume of all those days shut with a whisper, a hum, its pages like snow
drifting closer to the sun on a cloudless day.
All those nights I did not know her, she has remembered these as only the beginning.
🙏💚 yum