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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 6, Number 3, September 2012


Laura Juliet Wood
San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, Mexico


I am always going back to see, making sure it’s still there: black bowl of winter mikans, November moons. Nightingale floorboards announce a slow kitchen approach. Sliding past shoji screens to the paraffin heater, rice steamer. It’s the time of day for shared hunger and two dry hands held out for more.

Kettle on the stove:
morning bird whistle,
your breath.

Only you have been replaced by another now, and fat cherries, petals pressed onto thin paper, swell beneath the fan. Still, shadows of teacups with our fingerprints, notes of our watery conclusions. Mandarins gone the way of the night sky. Our morning come.



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