Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts

Novembers

by Judith Skillman

I remember being shorter than,
not measuring up to,

hearing wind rush
through empty tops of trees.

This coming upon, these pines.
To list a little

in early evening darkness.
I recall my father’s apologies,

the sponge cake,
the Bundt pan with its wide middle.

Aprons and prints helter skelter,
lids askew. Physics

of the kitchen,
square root of pi,

the compass with its red arrow pointing,
the argument of he said, she said,

and soon enough the thud
that meant thud.