Charlene Stegman Moskal
Our Finest Family Tradition
I baked banana bread today
one with walnuts that I crushed
with my inheritance, her rolling pin,
honeyed with the patina of yesterday’s strudel
burn marks from when it got too close the flame.
Two feet long tapered at the ends
my hands ran down the length of her,
(oh yes it is a she).
Bone smooth, silky like rising bread
Her ghost hands over mine,
I thought of her flowered dress, heavy arms,
her smile, her Russian accent.
I imagined her surrendering, shaking her head
at my father who, in our finest family tradition,
brought home strays:
the yellow chow dog heavy with puppies;
the abandoned horse whose peddler had died;
lost men fed under the stairs in tenement hallways
redolent with the smell of garlic.
I was taught to bring home strays.
Serendipity when the small thing attacked
from behind the gas meter in the alley –
after all I was the kid who took home
the stuffed toy that wasn’t sewn right, the blue dog
with one ear too high and mismatched eyes.
They taught me well;
I had a resume of strays, human and otherwise
some tattered, all matching my needs.
And here was this one so unappealing
so small, so fierce, so hungry, so alone.
hair like static on a skirt.
We were destined for each other
My ugly princess, with a too small head,
few teeth, and a cherry eye.
I see my father grinning, proud of me,
I see Granma Becky rolling out strudel
singing arias to my little black dog at her feet.
Blades
We sit on cold metal benches. I envy his sleek black shoes, pointy blades sharp as words that run through hallways, skate from room to room. Mine white, high tops for a princess, blades toothed, jagged at the tip to stop forward motion on a dime. We sit together; he laces them. His hook pulls the silver grommets tight, each tug a pinch towards the rink. I am expectant, powerful with the certainty I can keep up this time. Two long strides; he takes my mittened hand begins the circle round the rink dance. My father is flying, I am an appendage. My legs pump to keep belief alive that I can keep up this time. I am being dragged along, slide in his wake. I shake free; his hand loosed from mine, I twirl forward, spin out of control, dig my jagged toe into the ice. I stop, legs, arms, sprawled; a starfish abandoned on a glacier. He skates past me; body bent forward, eyes focused, arms in rhythm, a counterpoint to his legs. I don’t expect him to stop; don’t want him to stop. I want to sit akimbo on the ice watch him glide past, graceful as a shark amongst men.
Charlene Stegman Moskal
Charlene Stegman Moskal is a Teaching Artist for the Alzheimer’s Poetry Project and Poetry in the Schools under the auspices of the Las Vegas Poetry Promise Organization. Charlene is published in numerous anthologies, print magazines and online, including: “TAB Journal”; “Humana Obscura”; “Kosmos Journal”; “Griffel”, “Gyroscope” and “Sandstone & Silver, an anthology of Nevada Poets”, (Zeitgeist Press). Her first chapbook is “One Bare Foot”, (Zeitgeist Press) with a second, “Leavings from My Table”, forthcoming from Finishing Line Press in the Fall of 2022.