She read from the book of
poems as she moved the white onion softening and spreading to the side so the celery could fold into red sauce that was simmering that we
would eat most of the week.
The pepperoni was sliced; the house smelled of basil
and oregano. Her hands smelled of garlic. My hands on the back of her neck, the small of her back smelled of garlic. But the girls were in the
next room writing their names on
windows nibbling hard yellow cheese.
I know the poet well, I told
her. I had rescued his book from
between shelves in the basement of the
library. It had been borrowed in 1981
and again in 1995. I asked her to look at it. Someone should occasionally look at it. To make it whole, I said To complete the circle. She said, There's a blue moon tonight. You can see it if you look up.
Glenn Irwin teaches writing and
literature at the University of Missouri, St. Louis.
