I
“Cannoli,” you say,
your first word this morning,
sweet remembrance of yesterday’s taste
of creamy pastry, still on your tongue.
I laugh, delighted
by your bright smile,
warm honey-colored hair,
sturdy little legs.
You are two, and
I sing to you
in the mornings,
strangely happy to greet the day
even before coffee.
II
I sit in darkness at the dining room table,
sipping my coffee, don’t want to wake you.
Home from college, you prefer
to sleep on the living room sofa,
in the coolness of air-conditioning.
Yesterday’s conversation is jumbled;
I try piecing it together.
Our words had flown like darts
across the room; I had felt pierced.
Too quickly I’d joined the game.
How to do better next time
at holding my tongue?
I contemplate going to Veniero’s
to buy a box of cannolis.
Judith Lee Herbert has returned to poetry after a successful career in another field. She graduated Cum Laude in English Literature from Columbia University. She has a daughter who is a sophomore in college, and she lives in New York City with her husband, who writes plays. She had her daughter while in her 40s.