Paul comes home from camp today, and I thought I would feed him something that is neither Spam nor Tang, which means I have to go grocery shopping, which means I can't stay home alone and write, even though I haven't been alone in the house since June 9. Oh well.

Anyway, here's the projected menu: oven-fried chicken, ricotta dumplings browned in chicken drippings, green beans (of course), sweet corn, angel cake, sugared blueberries.

If he's not asleep on the couch, he should be happy . . . except for the residual pangs arising from his sudden discovery of the myriad Red Sox injuries that have occurred since his departure.

Because I want to be writing poems instead of picking blueberries and whipping egg whites, I'll comfort myself now by posting a poem from How the Crimes Happened. As I reread it, I'm not sure how much I like this piece, so I'm not sure, after all, how much of a comfort posting it will be. Nonetheless, here it is.

Eve’s Dream

Dawn Potter

Not of your sweet wandering hands, nor even

of yesterday’s seed or tomorrow’s green pear,

but of crime and trouble, yes, offenses that never

crossed my fancy before this wretched night:

for in my dreams a quiet voice at my ear

coaxed me awake; and I thought it was you

cajoling me into the pleasant shadows,

cool and silent, save when silence yields

to cricket scratch or throaty owl,

white moon-face waxing gibbous

and all the Heavens awake in their glory

though none else to revel in them but ourselves;

and I rose and walked out into the night,

but where were you? I called your name,

then ventured, restive, into the lunar

garden I knew so well by day, yet here

I lost myself in white light and black hole,

I staggered through puddles, over stones;

and I heard, in my heartbeat,

an invisible horror, I heard it tease me,

chase me, catch me; and I ran, I ran,

weeping I ran; until, under moonglow,

I saw my own pale hands stretch before me

toward the Tree that blocked my way;

I saw my hands embrace it, caress its satin skin.

And in return, the Tree kissed my captive lips

with its feathery leaves, as if a twist of wind

had leagued us suddenly together;

for it gleamed strange and terrible,

this great rooted flower,

plying me so gently with Knowledge:

though my lips, parched and ravenous,

begged, now, for a rougher, a crueler dram.