Back home, I pulled it out and read The Hedgehog, by Aimee Nezhukumatathil. It was a poem of folklore -- of a hedgehog growing in the womb with the baby -- and it caught my fancy. The next time I was at Bookbug, I looked for the collection with that poem, and was not disappointed. I found Lucky Fish on the poetry shelf, near that basket, and brought a copy home with me.
I shared Aimee's poem Mosquitoes in an earlier post. Here's another from her book:
ThanksgivingThis poem makes me think of my Jim. He is clever and wise, and he is loyal and patient. He is loving, and he has a tender heart - a heart that would care for the cricket.
by Aimee Nezhukumatathil
The only year I don't remember the turkey
was the year I first dined with the man
I would marry. Blessed be the bowl
of sweet potatoes, mallow melted
in a pool of swirly cream. Blessed be no
seating assignments so I could sit
next to him. Around the table: a physicist,
an engineer, a philosopher, another poet,
a harpist. There were others too, but
I don't remember what weepy thanks
was offered, what linens, or whether
the china was rimmed with a neat print
of ivy or gold. But I've committed the soap
and clean blade of his neck to memory.
I know the folds of his oxford, a bit
wrinkled from a long drive. During dinner,
the physicist said A cricket won't burn
if it is thrown into afire. Everyone laughed.
Some wanted to find a cricket to see
if it was really true. But this man—the man
I married—he grew quiet. Concerned. He's the kind
of guy who would've fished the cricket out of the flame.
I am so thankful for his goodness and his love.
|And for his heart, that cares for our girl|