Two Poems —Meetinghouse Literary Journal

by Abbie Kiefer

We Get the News and Gather

tasks for ourselves, my sisters and I.

In the first days of diagnosis, we simmer

soup, seven quarts, murky

with turmeric and organic kale. We buy daily

devotionals, essential oils. A sound machine that loops

every possibility for water: coursing or pouring

or waving and waving and waving against

sand. A tide only coming in. Only returning

what it took. We sort scans into folders

that thicken and spread. When her lips crack,

we bring balms: mint-mango, very

berry, piña colada. Let abundance

be kin to comfort. We order soft quilted

caps. A dozen, so we can give her

some options. We make

room for them in a drawer.

Our hands empty

a space.

A Brief History of Industry in Maine

There’s a mannequin sewing shoes and we laugh at his wig. There’s a shipbuilder, a stonecutter — we laugh at their wigs too. At the sardine exhibit, its mannequin scissoring fish into tins, someone asks Who even eats sardines? and the answer must be no one, because the docent tells our class all the canneries have closed. He shows us the mill wheel and Chris yells that mills smell like farts, which is true. We laugh. Next, two stuffed moose: muzzles near touching, antlers locked. They got exhausted and then they died the guide says. Chris caws Nice rack but we don’t laugh, not even Chris.

Abbie Kiefer's recent work is forthcoming or has appeared in Boulevard, The Cincinnati Review, Ninth Letter, Ploughshares, Poetry Northwest, Shenandoah, The Southern Review, and other places. She was a 2022 and 2023 semifinalist for the 92Y Discovery Prize. Find her online at abbiekieferpoet.com.

Art by Leah Ryu

Leah Ryu is a visual and digital artist based in Seattle, Washington. You can find more of their work at https://nonsensicle.github.io

Two Poems