Kate Fadick
Dandelion Greens
I met the girl three daysbefore her murder,cello on her back,cerulean eyes. Afterthis week of too muchdeath, I go to the garden,
remember my grandmotherwith the first turn of stilldamp dirt. The shovel liftsa dandelion, a worm hangson the roots, and I can tastethe spring tonic she swore by.
It took all afternoon to findtender leaves along the tracks,draw the deep green elixirfrom them, a brew with threebites of salt pork, pot liquorwe drank warm from the center
of the supper table. Memoryis my prayer. Shovel in, turnearth, in again, turn earth, inagain, the center of the suppertable, pot liquor we drankwarm, three bites of salt pork,
deep green elixir, tender leavesalong the tracks, all afternoon,spring tonic she swore by,a dandelion, worm on the roots,the first turn of still damp dirt,my grandmother, the garden,
this week of too much death,cerulean eyes, cello on her back,three days before her murder.
Hagiographyfor Joe
Three deer at woods’ edge, evening sun’s slant on things,and the story you told every October memory clear.
You were out for a run, felt her eyes on you; and whenyou stopped, so did she---a doe, there, ahead of you.
This is the amazing part, you always said. Without hesitatingshe came to you, licked the salty sweat from your palm.
I grieve you still in the smells of earthy dusk, wonderwhy you found your gentleness such a surprise.
Souvenir from Acoma
She squats in the adobe door,calloused fingers caressing the clay,
a fragile cocoon. I am hungryfor her miracle, bold black linesa cat’s cradle, sienna diamonds
floating. I buy the pot, no needto haggle about the cost.
Kate Fadick has worked as a community organizer and advocate for social justice in rural Appalachian communities and urban neighborhoods. She lives in Cincinnati and now considers her day job as that of “poet”. Her chapbook, SLIPSTREAM, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.
I met the girl three daysbefore her murder,cello on her back,cerulean eyes. Afterthis week of too muchdeath, I go to the garden,
remember my grandmotherwith the first turn of stilldamp dirt. The shovel liftsa dandelion, a worm hangson the roots, and I can tastethe spring tonic she swore by.
It took all afternoon to findtender leaves along the tracks,draw the deep green elixirfrom them, a brew with threebites of salt pork, pot liquorwe drank warm from the center
of the supper table. Memoryis my prayer. Shovel in, turnearth, in again, turn earth, inagain, the center of the suppertable, pot liquor we drankwarm, three bites of salt pork,
deep green elixir, tender leavesalong the tracks, all afternoon,spring tonic she swore by,a dandelion, worm on the roots,the first turn of still damp dirt,my grandmother, the garden,
this week of too much death,cerulean eyes, cello on her back,three days before her murder.
Hagiographyfor Joe
Three deer at woods’ edge, evening sun’s slant on things,and the story you told every October memory clear.
You were out for a run, felt her eyes on you; and whenyou stopped, so did she---a doe, there, ahead of you.
This is the amazing part, you always said. Without hesitatingshe came to you, licked the salty sweat from your palm.
I grieve you still in the smells of earthy dusk, wonderwhy you found your gentleness such a surprise.
Souvenir from Acoma
She squats in the adobe door,calloused fingers caressing the clay,
a fragile cocoon. I am hungryfor her miracle, bold black linesa cat’s cradle, sienna diamonds
floating. I buy the pot, no needto haggle about the cost.
Kate Fadick has worked as a community organizer and advocate for social justice in rural Appalachian communities and urban neighborhoods. She lives in Cincinnati and now considers her day job as that of “poet”. Her chapbook, SLIPSTREAM, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.