I am still learning that I hang up over old words.
Thirty Years Noodles
I made you noodles
thirty years ago,
I thought your mom’s so good
your love would grow for my noodles.
You said: Grandma’s were best
paper thin. I used to watch her cut them.
Oh damn, I thought, I’m a good cook
but I’ll never make noodles like that.
I didn’t make noodles again
because of that ancient remark.
Then our daughter bragged how
her husband loved her noodles.
He hated the plastic ones, but
hers were grade A prime.
I told her why I never cooked noodles,
She laughed, and you said: “What?”
So I dove into the deep end and
swam in new noodles, made
by my very own hands.
Papery noodles; kneaded, dried,
served with chicken broth
and milk to cream the sauce.
The noodles were fine, you
said they were good. Will I
knead noodles again?
Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
(Self-published. Please contact author directly to order.)
Enter the pages of diaspora in quiet introspection. Bathe your thoughts with subtle humor; synchronize your spirit-sense with history-in-heat; fall headlong with eyes wide open into
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