Coconut

During the brief awkward lull
while the candles smoked

and the off-key singing trailed off
into an unfinished second verse,

I leaned in to inhale homemade cake
with buttercream frosting

made for me with fresh coconut
grated from a real coconut

hammered open, the glistening
milk baked into three layers

of dense yellow cake, some grated flakes
toasted before sprinkled on frosting—

hours of work in a hot kitchen
by the old aunt, who’d leave a room

when I entered, looked past me silently
when I spoke to her, nursed some grudge

as hard and hairy as a coconut
to the day I stood over her grave.

We Do Not Pause

to recognize dried weeds outside
our door, across from the vibrant
green lawn that hugs the earth
for its last shreds of warmth,

refusing to give in to what
rustling leaves speak of on this day
before time changes, plunging us
into darkness by late afternoon.

So let us, this last day of autumn light,
revel in the fact that for many months
we’ll not see that pesky neighbor
with a bouquet of our flowers

in his hand, asking if we
really planted these weeds.

Nancy Jesse grew up on a dairy farm in Barron County, studied English at the University of Wisconsin—Madison, and worked for over forty years as an educator. Based in Madison, she has published both prose and poetry.