“You Can Tell” by Angie Estes
if fish are fresh by the way
their bodies arch, tails flipped up
--
You can tell it is Monday, or Tuesday,
Thursday. A quick bike to the corner
Backerei, curving streen signs and chain links.
Order an Oma, bitte. An Oma. A pastry of
powder, or better, a chocolate Opa.
They mean grandparents, his and hers. My
favorite words, how their names
plump a mouth to the surprise of fingers and
assonance. Plump like granny’s biscuits
when she still handmade them, before
frozen Pillsburys and Atkins. Plump like
Germans over ice cream and frites plump.
Plump. Sounds like the pigeons on my
windowsill, too admiring how it folds to
me, top leaning over to plump a
kiss to forehead. The wind, shrieking of bikers
below, curl to edge my Opa to pieces, the
crumbs thudding on the floor, loud
enough for neighbors to hear.
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