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Monthly Archives: December 2011

Month 5:28 “Upon Taking a Grape with Chopsticks”


WITH CHOPSTICKS [revision #5]

Yesterday I sat long minutes
near an open bird cage, ounces
of gray cockatiel
resting on my sleeve and feeding
on a spill of millet seed.
Oh, so blunt and pink
his taffy-thick tongue!

Today I take from my plate
this one cool red grape,
lift it with a pair of
slim rosewood chopsticks.
Between my lips — what could be
a lizard’s muscle

ABOUT THIS POEM — At my sister’s house during the holidays, I fed her pet bird from my lap. I’ve never before been so close to a bird. One of my holiday gifts was a beautiful pair of chopsticks with which I now eat grapes, peas, pasta, chunks of bread, and anything else fit for chopsticks. I don’t know for sure that the chopsticks are made of rosewood. They resemble rosewood chopsticks photographed on internet shopping sites. The “yesterday” and “today” counterpoint is fictional; that is, almost a week passed between my feeding the bird and my lifting the grape. 

Month 5:27 “Ceiling Lamp, Kitchen”

~kelly green

Beneath a flaring rim
(its inner cape pearl-white, one bulb
glowing edgeless as the moon
I saw last night partially hazed,
haze magnifying circumference,
moonlight leaking past boundaries)
I sit, eat red Cortlands, right-click, split
open mail with a silver blade
on a table off-center, just northeast of the lamp,
a fraction closer to night’s setting arcs
spied through panes of glass. Winters,
the bulb warms my brow the way
a green-striped mint suffuses,
emollient, a lenient palate.


by Therese L. Broderick

NOTES: This is one poem in a chapbook manuscript I’m now assembling. This version of the poem benefits from the feedback of three local poets.

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