The challenge was not
who could eat more each morning
since no champion was ever crowned;
the challenge remained
how long would she bake
for three boys whose appetites
stretched with her admiration.
Hers were not self-rising fluffy doubloons
but hard silver dollars. Layered
with honey and comb or sometimes
with homemade muscadine jelly
or even the smoky musk of scuppernongs,
we'd stuff them whole into our mouths,
only pretending to ignore the mounds
of scrambled eggs and bacon
on the Desert Rose platter.
Our morning mission:
to make our grandmother shake her head
at our excess, to eat
until the idea of lunch
forced her towards fried chicken
and the smell of mint tea steeping
drew us outside like yellow-jackets
to fall like overripe apples.
Richard Weaver lives in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor where he volunteers at the Maryland Book Bank, and acts as the archivist-at-large for a Jesuit college, founded in 1830. He also is a seasonal snow-flake counter, unofficially. Recent poems have appeared in the Southern Quarterly, Red Eft Review, Gnarled Oak, Conjunctions, Crack the Spine, Steel Toe Review, Triggerfish, Louisville Review, & Kestrel.
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