During the last month of the year, I burrowed like a marmot,
decorating the cave of my chair with another plush blanket,

a stack of books, a bag of Truffettes de France. I traveled in
my mind to Poland, but got lost in Vienna, trying to find
	
the apartment building of my aunts on Seilersgasse Eins. Life
often feels like an intake form. My hip hurts a little

more, and one of us is depressed, one of us wanders from here
to the mailbox. All month I was in a mood. When my

mother was sick with a UTI she said “oh look! there are heifers
outside the window,” where all I saw was a parking lot, and

“Are those worms on the ceiling?” as I slung my purse over
my aching shoulder, tightened my ankle brace before turning 

to leave. My mother did die, as did my father. I wasn’t
afraid, but I’m still shaken when the phone rings late at night.

I learned that being a poet means harvesting everything, 
even if it hurts. My camera serves me well. I carry it with me

in my pocket. See, I still have a photo of the moment before
you died. In 2023, maybe I’ll think again about traveling.

In 2024, maybe I’ll get out of my chair, open the curtains,
go for a long walk.
                        

as under. Like the mushroom. The brisket 
we sear four minutes to a side. A fresh 
apron in the closet, awaiting baptism 

of wine, olive oil and flour. This dough 
our hands massage and shape is beautiful, 
as are the clouds this December day, red 

berries in quart jars lined up on the shelf. 
The hand carries exquisiteness in vein-work. 
Skin, when a ring is removed, remembers 

the ring. The scent of applesauce is handsome 
to the nose, the language of my ancestors 
enchanting to my ear. Love is the bread 

broken, with balsamic and oil. Water, 
our first lover, the place we take root.