I stocked my shelves for you

illustration of a skillet full of various colorful pantry and food items
Art by Kristina Closs

SKILLET

by Lilah Hegnauer

Rally, joy, here. Weep here.
I am not lettered. I ferry
an even raft across your

pantry shelves: jimberry, jamberry,
red beans and black. Lentils
and popcorn and everything

you lack. I could pace your
acres and come to nothing–
still. No roots, no vines, no

frame, no sill. Consigned to a
pointy-ribbed filly, I address
you thus: rally here. I stocked
my shelves for you.

from Pantry

You are more wanted in this world than anything since or after

Remembering when home was a place we longed to spend more time in and feeling grateful for having shelter during such a terrible time as I read this Lilah Hegnauer poem.

IMG_8348.jpeg
Inside the home of dear friends, 2017. 

“Flour Sack”

We love the eve of holy days at home. We lose our mittens,
our heavy boots, toss our briefcases, unlace our braids,

and we, who were only ever employed tenuously to begin with,
throw off the mantle of this recession. We drink gin and we sing.

And you, young, blond curls limp in the heat, take karaoke requests
and queue them up and we all pretend, for a holy

day or two, that we have it all: enameled tubs, spoke and spoon
and spittle of all we won’t actually say. You are more wanted

in this world than anything since or after. You are wanted like
a hasp wants its pin, like a comma wants another clause. Give it.

from Pantry 

We aren’t in our bodies these days.

Hello, dear readers, and apologies for the radio silence. Today a friend introduced me to the work of Lilah Hegnauer, and I wanted to share this particularly gorgeous poem that captivated me from the title onwards.

“I am the city and you are my work of great mischief.”

The way the summer lasted, the way we flung our bodies on the bed,
the way you said in the morning, I couldn’t sleep because my neck

was touching my neck, the way our grief flooded under the doors,
the way we whispered through the fans’ motors. Such mangoes

en flambé we’d meant to mark this summer, too, excruciating.
And then, tonight, so tipping in our chairs, at last, so chilled,

so shutting windows in a flurry, the way you heaved your
weight against the sills. I was alone. I did it myself. I called

you to say finally and you said yes and I grew sturdy in my chest.
We aren’t in our bodies these days. All those babies in your

womb were never real. I was there. Their tiny bodies dropped.
The way, even in summer, chill pooled in the iron tub & spouts.