on meals and seasonings

2am and i’m reasoning
about how that train derailed
and how my second mother
could have been one of the two
who fell out of being.

we went to see her,
she was happier than when she left,
the coastline washes the vessel,
and so does an area plenty
between self and others.

nevertheless, the fish was great,
the sauce plain olive oil and garlic;
potatoes, sweet peppered,
roasted after boiling.
the wine pink, forgiving.
the talk, familiar, warm, salty,
like copper.

now, under night’s black drape
I sense all is entwined like fabric,
rolled up in this messy strange.
at times you pull the right string
oblivious you could have forced,
the one cord dangling off,
the one line spying you, concealed
in a meander of fragmented fear.

The Black Place II (1944), Georgia O'Keeffe.