Meatball Memories


Meat. Flour. Fry. Meat. Flower. Fry. It was a process I knew how to do before I could spell my name. Probably the most comforting smell I can think of is the smell of my grandma’s (and my mum’s) meatballs. Dripping oil and deliciousness, with a promise of a rise in your blood pressure, they weren’t the healthiest things I ever ate but they were heaven on earth. Anytime I smell Haitian Meatballs It always brings me back to when I was in Elmentary school. After a hard day of times tables and long division I’d get home and I’d stand behind the door and I could smell the mouthwatering meatballs and I knew: everything is okay. Everything is perfect. That is the smell that gives me a feel of what it is like to be young, innocent and happy.   


goodbye, winter


goodbye winter
liam bee

a woman, herself a broken blue clapboard,
carved fishbones on my house.
the more i look at them,
scratches on the brick shoulder,
i see the impoverished elders
bent life right in thousands
of my favorite poems. one window cracked
but i believe it, the night i love,
grey a quarter cut of darkness.
the woman who lives in
every remembrance of maine winters
which have worn a burden in her center.
there is despair, hope; where
is there a cover? most places, so rolling
and remote. where is the safe place
to touch each others’ beauty?
she occupies both of my hands.
the brightest light does not dim.
i will soon be headed for a mission
forgotten; poorness breeds creative
solutions. most places, so rolling and
remote, but everywhere she touches.
her words now are mosquitoes calling.
that will be my legacy too.

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