After my father died,
we didn’t try to talk my mom
out of eating the cookies she
called “lunch” nor the ice cream
sandwiches in their blue wrappers
when she wore pajamas before bed.
Who cares about blood glucose,
cholesterol, calories, cavities
when you’re 89 and you lost
your mate, can’t hear your
favorite symphonies nor see
well enough to read novels
anymore?
Childhood had baited her
with doily-perfect cookies
baking in an oven that her mother
served only to the guests.
My mother crammed her
kitchen cupboards with half-
a-dozen packages on a biweekly
basis, scouting out the stores
with the newest assortments.
I called her from Trader Joe’s:
did she prefer their Oreos,
wafers or dunkers this time?
When her coffin is lowered,
a daughter-in-law quietly slides
onto a corner of the lid
one Chocolate Mint Milano,
Pepperidge Farm.
Author of six collections of poetry, Shoshauna Shy's poems have been published in hundreds of journals, magazines, and anthologies. They’ve been made into videos, posted inside taxis, coated coffee can labels and java jackets, and even plastered the hind quarters of city buses.
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