My mother's tears sprinkle the Irish linen
she presses for Thanksgiving. "What I miss
most, is your father going on about
my cooking," she says. "Like the General
in Babette's Feast."
The stainless soleplate catches
the afternoon sun and throws
light all around the kitchen.
My mother adds more dead weight
to her shadow.
Patrick Anderson works for an environmental consulting firm in Seattle. He has a mad passion for language and poetry, and when not working, can usually be found on his ketch on Lake Union, scribbling in a notebook.