Call It a Vaccine Against Arrogance

My cup is made of earth,
of clay, of minerals.
I fill it with hot water,
roasted berries.
I drizzle tree blood
boiled into syrup,
stir circles with my fork
to make a brown tornado funnel.
I pour liquid taken from a cow,
watch the cream spin
and spiral out into a galaxy.
This is my morning pleasure:
to create a universe
and drink it.

Eating His Dead Mother’s Ice Cream

Old school tough—a gardener—her enemy
was forsythia, rhododendron her best friend. 

In the time of Covid he shopped each week
for her, her list always the same: six eggs,
cream cheese, raisin bread, cookies,
half-and-half, chicken thighs, little potatoes,
salad, coffee, ice cream, and pads. 

The mother who said I’ll kill you kids then
kill myself! turned into a grandmother who
asked what cookies would you like? 

After years of ER trips and falls, life shrinking
around her in a downdraft, she stopped. She failed
her mission to outlive her ex. Never I love, no
final words. 

Shock. Relief. Refrigerator.
He knew she wasn’t eating the groceries but
she liked to recite the list, liked to watch her son
put away the food, pretend she would again cook
chicken and drink half-and-half with coffee.
All soured and moldy except for the ice cream
stacked in the freezer. 

I found mocha chip, black raspberry, vanilla—
flavors I, too, liked. I hoped that was all
we had in common, but when my pink phlox bloomed,
her favorite, I thought I’d pick some for her
and one second later I knew
it would always be complicated.

Bad Mirror

She looks in the mirror.
Doesn’t see herself.
Only what’s behind her. 

An exaltation of clouds.
How disappointing.
Isn’t there something else? 

Egyptians in loin cloths
building pyramids
fall to their deaths. 

Try again.
A snake in an apple tree.
That’s just ridiculous. 

Teeny tiny tin soldiers
flow back and forth
toppling each other. 

Big metal flowers
explode and blossom
with poisonous pollen. 

She shouts at the mirror:
Show me what I look like!
Nope, doesn’t work. 

The next woman picks up the mirror.
She only sees what’s behind her.
A long line of really pissed off women.

Author’s Biography

Sara Backer’s first book of poetry, Such Luck, follows two chapbooks: Scavernger Hunt, and Bicycle Lotus, which won the Turtle Island Chapbook Award. Her honores include a prize in the Plough Poetry Competition, nine Pushcart nominations, and fellowships from the Norton Island and Djerassi resident artist programs. Recent publications include Lake Effect, Poetry Northwest, Turtle Island Poetry, and Poetry Ireland. She lives in New Hampshire and reads for The Maine Review.