A Family Recipe

A Family Recipe

(“Yes, you are our glory and joy!” 1 Thessalonians 2:20)

I am a recipe for family chili
on a yellowed index card in the back of
the roll-top desk drawer. It is almost memorized.

I am a telephone number I remember
from high school. No one lives there
anymore.

There are stars blinking in unknown constellations
tonight. But I cannot see them through the clouds
that overtake most nocturnes here on the river. They
try to send me a message in code, but I miss even
Venus that once brightly welcomed me home. The
stars bloom late here so near the ocean.

I want a body like when I was 20.
I want a mind that won’t scatter the wind
in disremembered rhymes. I want you to see me
nearer to life than this; age and pain
sap my hopes while lately I find
less hope than I should. I have more than
I deserve.

I am an old love letter written in shaky cursive
stuffed inside an envelope with a date far older
than seafarer’s charts. I knew how to write
without edits. I knew how to edit without restraint.

I am faint, I am brittle. I cannot wait for
the next time around a table
with eyes flashing next to and across the
conversation. I want to remember it like it
still touches my cheek with its palm.

My dreams broke up with me overnight.
I think it was my birthday.
But then they insisted we reunite
over coffee and crying. I recognized the
voices but the faces escape me.

I am a family recipe waiting for
the constellations to come out at night.