Margaret Roncone ---- four poems

 Language is a Flame

I burn rosebuds,

bergamot

to find

the birthplace

of my grandmother

who understood sorrow,

nylons wrapped

around ankles

potatoes boiling

on an ancient stove

a man who misunderstood

even the food

she placed before him

nothing warm enough

soft enough

only the wreck of a car

sitting useless

under the old cherry tree.

In This House

I move from room to room

balls of my feet

flapping against wood

refrigerator hums

its numb song

dusk air passes

its invisible hand

as the porch’s slatted ironwood

holds  plant debris

deer come and go

leaving nothing

but a spot of cropped grass

green laces of cedar

open and close mouths

of branch

I am in awe of everything

whether it has lungs

or a soul of wood.

What I Hear

Smoking or fainting

are not allowed

on the vessel

my mind often

plays tricks

to protect me

from damaged people

from the upside down moon

with no tether

from silver spoons

pretending to create

concertos

I simply ask

please warn against potholes

please retract sharp

instruments

please display

silence sign

so all can see.

The Father as Artist

tell me again how your father instructed you into the language of food

how you      his first daughter    learned to balance an egg

on morning's shifting edge

learned  mustard was a color 

to shade sky   and trunk of trees

cream     a luxury  found

in stealing glances    a neighbor woman pruning roses

an ankle teased beneath her dress

tell me again how your father spoke without anger

stood at the window     watched

as the winter moon rose like the silver dollar stolen

from your grandfather's nightstand

he placed it in your hand

told you to trust your instincts with strange men

never leave questions unanswered like an open door.