Laura Rodley‘s latest books are Turn Left at Normal by Big Table Press, Counter Point by Prolific Press, and As You Write It Lucky 7, printed by Leveller’s Press.

Her other book, Ribbons and Moths upcoming at the end of the year by Kelsay Books.

The Lightest Touch

There’s white paint dolloped
on the dark green uniform shirt
inscribed E.Connor—his grandfather,
one of the shirts that his grandfather
wore lying underneath the chassis
of Greyhound buses in Boston to fix
them, housed at the barn.
Only five foot four,
his size was useful to fit
into tight spaces tightening bolts,
leveling axles. It’s been a long time
since Grampy’s been gone,
a long time since his grandson
dropped the white paint on himself
while we painted old houses
on Brimmer Street, he using a roller,
and me a brush, doing all
the meticulous trim work.
But here he is, donning Grampy’s
shirt to silk-screen his latest design,
a buck encircled by stars
for our side of town, Buckland,
the dark green color and thick
weave still protecting its wearer
from any mistakes.

Ease

How my granddaughter weaves horse stalls under
the kitchen table, how her hooves thunder
but not her voice since horses only neigh
and she’s waiting for grain, flakes of hay,
daintily picking up the grass we pluck
and leave by her hooves, such trepled luck
to have a horse under the table, no
barn necessary, just your heart aglow
as the horse wears her red polka dot dress
and paws the ground, lies down to take a rest,
hasn’t learned yet to lie back and roll, shake
off dust of dry pasture; we will not wake
the sleeping horse under the table, let
her dream of galloping, tail streaming jets.

Gardening

Slippers made of soapsuds,
ears made of glittered paper cones
then outside, planting beets
by putting a whole packet
into a cup of black soil,
and covering it up.
This is healthy food, says Etta,
as we plant the pumpkins
and bees buzz nearby
as jet fighter planes whine overhead.
It’s Popsicles for lunch,
it’s so hot and she’s not hungry;
we’ll eat later when it’s cool.
She sings along with the radio,
sounding out the words,
I will always love you
and it’s true, she will, I will, I do.

Gooseberries

Green globes lined symmetrically, see-through
a world held in your palm, a welcome brew

of gooseberries, filled with light, sour taste
that turns to nectar sweetened, not to waste,

so many, tiny marbles topped and tailed
to fill the bowl, cooked just right; never failed

for pudding, served with hot yellow custard
divinity from the vine, neighbor’s yard

full of them, cherries too; with these she made
cherry wine, adding yeast, sugar, pomade,

stuck in tall cellar shelves to age;
sometimes she used apples, pears, or greengage.

When it was ripe, Gillian poured the wine,
we toasted the bounty of nature’s twine.