Plague Diary — Week XI

By Finola Cahill

I cook fresh artichoke—a head boiled bald,
butter melted in the day’s bragging heat.
The garlic bathes, my teeth glean flesh from each
earry lobe of bract, skin spit back to bin.
The choke is lonely. I leave it that way,
just watching. The green on green on green on
green, the same spun colors as the window
of the train west or walked-in paths of my sleep.

Dad paints walls. My brother carries a drill.
Mum makes morale-iced buns. Photos arrive
on my phone like Benedictine bells, oh
lauds, each of these day-after-day mornings.
I am not lonely. I touch the plastic
between the people and produce at the till.

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This poem originally appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 20. Support local booksellers and independent publishers by ordering a print copy of the magazine.

Photo by Anna Kaminova