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.



Baltimore-based poet, Richard Weaver



              August 2017

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