Coleslaw

By harold Ackerman

Coleslaw


My sister's hand
her guarded g's
her yearning y's
cramps on itself
preserving the lore
our mother kept
on faint blue lines
of crumpled cards
the tablespoons
the celery seed
blended and cured
with or without
tart tartar sauce
for the one taste
that is one's home
to help us bide
(husband, bairn)
winter, summer
bland poverty.