I Was Once Told I Look Like an English Poet In First Youth, by Yvonne Fisher

I was once told I look like a Jewish wife in World War II 

like Alice B. Toklas

like Emma Thompson 

like somebody else 

like nobody 

like I'm an old soul

like a young chick 

like a hippie 

like a therapist 

like everyone else in Queens

like an old woman

like a sexy broad 

like I'm elegant 

like a slob 

like a crazy person 

like a drama queen.

I was once told that I look like my mother. I used to get insulted and shocked. Now I take it as a compliment. More and more I feel her live inside me.

Bring it on, I say, bring it on.

Note: the title is taken from a short story by Mavis Gallant

Nighttime: Two, by Melissa Hamilton

A Normal Dream

Nighttime, eases my head to the pillow

and the sky unzips.

Here, anything can happen-

the shelf stocker from Wegmans,

suddenly an Arabian prince.

And I have three-eyes, nothing

out of the ordinary.  We fly over Ithaca

on my friend’s orange doormat

(I hope she doesn’t miss it).  Dropping

kumquats and persimmons to cats

with outstretched paws.  Many gather

below, until I see my neighbor dressed

like the Tribe of Masai, he has curly tusks

and is rolling grassy marbles,

in a game that makes perfect sense.

I call out, “Hello!” but I’m speaking a language

of stars, only glistening light falls from my lips.

The cats stretch out, as if there was sun. 

My neighbor starts eating the marbles

and my Arabian Prince points back

towards the pillow. I hope he returns the doormat

before his a.m. Wegman’s shift. 

Birds of Night

Nighttime, casts away the day,

it has unfolded as it will.

The shift in light once brought an end

to peace. In autumn, when a clock change

made darkness roll early,

I’d stand on the edge of a field,

watch the corn on the cusp of withering

and feel existential dread.

As if the sky opened up too wide, and crows

heading to roost, beckoned me to follow. 

I’d imagine their sooty wings, dark nests and trying

to fold my legs properly in the land of bird.

I wanted to be taken in, away from the fading light.

Eventually moving in with an owl,

far from the field and corn stalks whispering,

and learn to embrace the night.

Why Can’t I Sleep? by Deirdre Silverman

It’s too hot. It’s too cold

Old houses creak in the night

I have a deadline/time pressure/my mind is racing/ too many details

The wind is howling/ the coyotes are howling/the birds are singing at first light

Mark is taking up too much space, he’s crowding me

Mark is too far away, I can’t feel his warmth

Mark is snoring

Wait! Is Mark still breathing?

I have to pee and it’s too cold to get out of bed

We just made love/We didn’t make love

Mice running in the attic/mice running in the walls

The movie was too scary/depressing/funny

The concert was too energizing

That dessert/chocolate/late cup of tea

My nose is stuffed/my throat is dry/my foot cramped up/ my hip hurts/etc.

The moon is too bright/the snow is too bright/ it’s too dark

Is my granddaughter OK? My grandson? My friend whose husband died?

What does dying feel like?

Do I have an incurable illness?

Do I have enough money for retirement?

Do I have enough yarn for retirement?

Extras when I’m away from home (mostly hotels):

The bed is too soft/the bed is too hard

Could there be bedbugs?

It’s too noisy/too much traffic/ too much ambient light

Is the door really locked?

The heat/ air conditioner keeps turning on and off — and it’s LOUD

Mark isn’t here

It’s too dark to find the bathroom

I can hear everything from the next room

They’re having LOUD sex/wake-up call at 4 a.m./ TV all night

Will I make my flight connection tomorrow?

What WAS in that food anyway?

I can’t wait to get home. What mess will be waiting when I do?

Hey! I was just dreaming. If I was dreaming, then I must have been sleeping. Good to know I got SOME sleep after all that.

Tomahto Sauce, by Kay H. Bradford

They grew up with the same parents (Betsy and Newlin Hastings), in the same house (18 Old Mill Road, Pasadena, California), attended the same grade schools and even colleges (Westridge and Smith), and yet my mom says Tomayto and Aunt Annie says Tomahto.

Over the years, I’ve wondered how could this be.  Annie is four years Mom’s senior and was born in 1946.  I thought possibly after the war there was a tomato shortage and Annie grew up only reading about tomatoes in books, thinking that it was pronounced Tomahto never having heard it in real life.  This theory wouldn’t  account for there never having been a great tomato famine – ever — and especially not in Pasadena where my grandmother had a prolific garden and fresh veggies were easier to get than fresh air at that time.

Possibly a British houseguest visited when Annie was learning to speak and Annie picked it up from her.  But, do the British even say tomahto?   Who says tomahto anyway?

Or maybe Annie chose sides on the jingle, You say tomayto, I say tomahto. It’s clear, though, who’s right in the song. You say tomayto.  I say tomahto.  You say potayto.  I say potahto.  Please!  No one says potahto.  “Well, I just can’t decide between the potahto salad or mashed potahtos.”

The strangest thing is that Annie is the only one in the whole family who says tomahto.  That’s just one of her idiosyncrasies.

She’s left-handed, color blind, hardly sleeps, travels with every free 12-hour period and will often bring a stash of liquor in her suitcase just in case there happen to be no bars at her destination, or if the drinks are watery and over-priced.  Annie loves a good time with good friends and good food. 

I can tell you that tomayto sauce and tamahto sauce actually taste different.  Everyone knows tomayto sauce, be it fresh or from a jar.  It’s simple and slightly acidic, which make it perfect for pizzas or pastas.

Tamahto sauce has a little something else.

First, it’s made from tamahtoes, which are a deeper red, sweeter, and grown outside of the 500 mile radius of where you grew up.  They vary in shape and size, and can’t be found at your local grocer.

The tamahto sauce adds further complexity to the tomahto's mysterious taste, with herbs that sound familiar, but again are more exotic.  Think oraygono and bahsíl!

On a Cold Day in Winter, by Mary Roberts

It's cold outside, but that's okay. You can make soup, take a hot bath, build a fire (or turn up the heat), learn to knit, sew or crochet, take up checkers, solitaire, euchre or spades. Listen to the radio while making dinner, your Danish language tapes while cleaning your room, a long-crazy-interesting book on tape while folding your sheets. Make your bed every day, and pull your curtains open just wide enough to receive the sun but not the draft. Rejoice when it gets dark at 5:30 instead of 5:00, laugh, talk, sing, spit, love. Make tea and watch it steep. Write a poem of words beginning with the letter "P" about things that are yellow, purple or orange. Tuck your houseplants in at night and make sure they get enough light when the day comes again. Make more soup and get lots of rest. Write a letter/postcard/send a random package to a different person every day, eventually going down the list of distant cousins and long-lost pen pals. Laugh as hard as you can, and go for plenty of walks. Bundle up and walk it out, walk it off, soak it up. Notice the dried flowers in your neighbor's garden and the crackling leaves under layers of snow, your feet and the solid ground. Wear your warmest socks and your brightest scarf.