Her Blue Bowl

    by Sherry O’Keefe

I think about her slippered feet, bony

ankles, kerchief tied around her pink foam curlers

as she rolled out noodles through the night.

Nothing outlasted her.  With stock

brewing from fresh Hutterite chickens

she slipped outside with a flashlight to pinch

green parsley and sage from her kitchen

garden.  The right touch to color the soup

served in my deep red bowl. She knew about cold

bones, how to calm a shiver.  Hand upon my brow.

She taught me, later, to debone chicken, to put away

my bowl, which stands empty now as I roll

chewy dough with her rolling pin, sprinkling herbs

and tasting. I chose her embroidered dish towel with frayed

yellow stitching, wrap my hands around her fragile

blue bowl.  The broth steams as I pour.

© 2009 Sherry O’Keefe

Sherry O’Keefe, a descendent of a Montana pioneer, mother of two, sister to four, cousin to dozens, credits her Irish upbringing for her story-telling ways and the healing touch from stories passed down through the generations.  Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Barnwood Poetry Review, Avatar Review, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Two Review, Soundzine and Main Street Rag.  Her chapbook, Making Good Use of August is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.