Emily Brandt

Absence

Absence, she says, is like wind —
           not the way wind rushes into an open mouth
blowing cheeks into fleshy balloons,
not the way wind rustles up sand
into mounds at your feet —
                                     it puts a small fire out.

The sunlight reflects in streaks off windows
left closed to keep in the purr of electric air.
She distills herself into the hum, leaving
her solid adage on a trimmed tray,
like a Honey-baked ham with pineapple rings.

This recipe, like her others, is written remarkably
in blue ink on a card, three by five, and filed by letter
in a tin box that opens like a locked jaw. Behind it,
Icebox cake, Jell-o surprise, Lemon meringue pie,
dozens of yellowed cards, a thousand times read.

Absence, she says, is like wind —
           not the way wind tickles the sash of your dress,
not the way wind rustles the blossoms
of dogwoods on lawns tended
by tanned men
                      — it kindles a large flame,

but I’m sure she meant restless. In all her instructions,
there isn’t a card that says this is when
the cake is done, this is the moment the bread rises,
this is the time it takes for icing to drizzle
perfectly down the sides. These details
she left to chance, for the reader to falter.

Author Bio

Emily Brandt teaches English in Brooklyn, co-edits No, Dear magazine, and is working on her MFA at NYU, where in the fall, she will be teaching creative writing to veterans of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Her poems have recently appeared in Swamp, Reconfigurations, and BluePrint Review.