By John Ziegler
Luther’s Story
The aroma of white cheddar,
and bread, warm on the palm,
the joke about Leiderkrantz.
His father’s long lip over smokey teeth,
white shirt, trimmed nails
smooth hands of a baker.
The woman in the fox fur
sipping camomile in the dark restaurant,
the iron sounds of the night across the river.
The barber’s chair,
the fragrant foam, collarless striped shirt,
a small pistol in the dresser drawer.
The brother who paid for the violin
when the father would not,
the minister’s son
with a pocket full of cinnamon bark.
The basement floor of packed earth
and coal dust,
the grandmother’s dress
torn into dust rags,
feathers and pelts hung as charms
from rafters and water pipes
their odor embedded in the crumbling walls,
the gradual carnage of Alzheimers
eroding his speech and his memory.
Lydia’s Sampler
His blunt fingers hold the remains of Lydia’s sampler,
now just a few threads where moths had laid their eggs.
He fishes a chipped photo from his breast pocket,
a picture of his father in a dark suit, trousers creased and cuffed,
and two old ladies, barrel shaped, one standing stiffly,
dark ominous dress and those godawful shoes.
The other stares off through rimless glasses,
a black ribbon tied under her pale chin
holds her gauze cap in place.
A light powder dusts her neck,
gives off a cloying smell
that imprints in a child’s memory
when she leans into him.
John Ziegler is a poet and painter, gardener and traveler, originally from Pennsylvania, he recently migrated to a mountain village in Northern Arizona.
Academy of the Heart And Mind 