Brussels Sprouts
A Free Verse Poem
By Karen Tichnor
She always fantasized
grown daughters would cook
with her in the kitchen
help wash dishes —
chat it up
talk about this and that.
She fantasized
Laughter
Secrets
Whispers
Bonding
It didn’t happen.
A carefully planned family dinner rolled around
Gluten free bread
Vegetarian option
No nuts
No eggs
No dairy
Brussels sprouts for the son.
Hand-picked plumpish
Brussels sprouts sat
in the vegetable drawer
huddled together in a green plastic bag
waiting
for someone with experience
to deal with them.
It wasn’t her.
As though on cue,
Her son walked into the kitchen
“Let me make the brussels sprouts,”
he nodded.
She handed him these miniature vegetables —
proud members of the cool-season cabbage family.
He examined what she bought —
Approvingly nodded again.
He told her what he needed:
Colander
Olive oil
Coarse salt
Pepper
Secret ingredient
She quickly became sous chef
as he poked around the spice cabinet
seeking the secret ingredient.
“Do you have
a good knife,
mixing bowl,
cutting board?”
He prepped
She bustled
They chatted it up
talking about cooking,
celebrity chefs —
talking about this and that!
They laughed
shared secrets,
whispered comments under their breaths
about relatives in the other room…
they bonded,
over brussels sprouts sprinkled with red pepper flakes.
#
Does Anyone Want These Chairs?
A Free Verse Poem
By Karen Tichnor
She texted:
Does anyone want these chairs?
She sent a picture of three wooden chairs
with black leather seats
to three grown children who sat
on the chairs —
for years.
The chairs anchored them:
kept them together
in their places
no matter how
distasteful
the conversations
or meals.
She sees chairs like them
in catalogs
she sees chairs like them
on websites —
you don’t need
to go
to a store anymore
to buy a chair.
She bought the chairs
from a guy
who owned
a small furniture store
in Cambridge
Antiques of the future!
he proclaimed.
She gloated
over her purchase
thinking the chairs would be worth something —
someday.
The store…long gone.
The guy…long gone.
The chairs not quite antiques.
She waited
for the children to
respond.
It wasn’t the first time
she asked the troika
about the chairs —
but this time was different:
she sent along a picture.
No response.
The next evening…
she thought…
they could have texted back:
No thank you.
The silence was powerful.
Somewhat hurtful.
Nobody wanted the chairs.
Neither did she —
anymore.
Yet, sorrow swooped in
as the chairs
were tossed on a truck,
driven away,
never to be seen
again.
